


The Dog Has His Day

by The_Librarian



Series: Life After Equivalence [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Consequences, Gen, Mad Science, Political Expediency, Post-Canon, Romance, The new normal - Freeform, Wheels in motion, getting on with life, what happens next
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do with your life when you've already done and seen more than most people would in several lifetimes? Even after months back in Resembool, Ed is still trying to work that out. Luckily for him, people in high places have very firm ideas about his future and they have just sent Mustang to re-recruit him.</p><p>Oh, wait. 'Lucky' might not be the right word here . . .</p><p>A sequel to the The Conqueror of Shamballa and my fics, 'The Death of Truth' and 'The Long Walk Home'. Spoilers for the series as a whole. Anime universe. Ed, thus language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Decree (In which Roy meets someone more important than he is)

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again, happy as can be . . .
> 
> So, for those of you not paying attention (or clicking blindly on a late-night fic binge, in which case go to sleep you silly, silly people) - this is the third in a series of post-canon (2003 anime) stories that basically set out what I think could have happened next to Ed, Al and the rest of the gang. Chapter-wise, this is the shortest of the three, but it does pack a fair bit in. It's also the last of the fics in this series that I have 100% finished, so after this, I might not post more for a while.
> 
> Anyway, not a whole lot to say other than thanks to all the people who *actually* created and own FMA, to those darling people who proof-read this and to all you wonderful readers - your time and comments (and kudos) have been much appreciated on the previous instalments and I hope this one holds your attention just as much.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Prime Minister of Amestris was two or three years older than Roy Mustang and about three inches taller. His features were intelligent and sharp but capable of surprising warmth when necessary. His hands were broad and – Mustang thought the best term was ‘workmanlike’, although he was fairly certain the man had never done a day’s honest labour in his life. He projected an air of calm resilience and confident comradeship. When he had been elected, it had been on promises of safety and security and of a new Amestris rising from the ashes of the old.

Given all that had happened in the past year, he had been working overtime to give those promises fresh credibility. It was a testament to his ability as a politician that he was still firmly in power.

He was working at his desk – _his_ desk, not the famous one that had decorated the Fuhrer’s office – when his secretary showed Mustang in. He nodded a greeting without looking up. “Ah, come in Roy, sit down. I’ll be with you in a moment – just need to finish telling the Aerugan consul exactly where he can shove his disclosure demands.”

Pen flew over paper in deft little spirals. Bidden by an encouraging wave, Mustang settled into one of the comfortable chairs facing the desk. He kept his back as straight as he could, aware that the comfort was likely designed to lull any visitor into a false sense of security or even out-right sleepiness.

At length, the Prime Minister finished his note with an elegant signature. He made a satisfied noise and transferred the sheet to an out-tray. “There we are. Really, they can’t possibly expect that we’ll actually let them have one of those wrecked airships we’ve got locked away. I suppose they think if they keep throwing official objections at us, they’ll bury us under enough diplomatic paperwork that we won’t notice them sneaking a couple of tons of scrap metal out of the country. Drink?”

“Thank you, sir,” Mustang replied, nodding.

“Call me Mort,” the Prime Minster said airily, crossing to the drinks cabinet, “Or at least, Mr Haeker. I can’t stand being called ‘sir’. Far too military. Ah, I’d offer you a cigar but I know you don’t smoke and I personally detest the things. Now . . . hmm . . .”

Having poured two generous glasses of whiskey, ‘Mort’ returned to his desk. Handing one of the drinks to Mustang, he raised the other to his lips and settled back in his seat.

“You’re an interesting man, Roy,” he began after a sip, “Which I suppose goes without saying for an alchemist – or one feels it should. I must admit I’ve met some alchemists who were boring as hell. But not you. In fact, reading your files, I have to say I did begin to wonder if you were some sort of schizophrenic.”

Pausing, he took another sip of whiskey and swivelled his chair around slightly, so that he could cross his legs comfortably. “There’s two people in those files,” he mused, “One’s a slick boot-licking suck-up who would sell his own grandmother if it meant a promotion. The other’s a loyal, courageous warrior who has put his life on the line for this country half a dozen times in the last few years alone. It’s quite a fascinating dichotomy. I suppose it’s quirks like that that have people arguing that State Alchemists should be on tighter leashes. Can’t have a bunch of mad men wandering around with absolute power at their fingertips. Of course . . . you’re one of the people who’ve argued exactly that. I was rather amused when I found that out. Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” he added, neatly cutting off Mustang’s attempt at a reply, “I agree completely. But you advocating it . . . it’s rather like a dog arguing that it should be muzzled. Or that every other dog should be muzzled . . .”

Mustang carefully said nothing, sampling the excellent whisky. Haeker was clearly in no hurry to get to the point and there was nothing to gain by rushing things. If nothing else, it seemed Mustang was going to get a full run down of exactly what the man thought of him. Or wanted him to think he thought of him.

“I suppose I can’t argue that it’s not a politically expedient cause to extol,” Haeker went on, gesturing with his glass, “The public’s opinion of State Alchemy has never been exactly . . . exuberant. And the excesses of those involved in it have blackened this country’s name for the last few decades. Small wonder that so many of our most promising young alchemists have chosen to join the Independent movement . . .”

“I believe many people consider that an improvement,” Mustang murmured, as if thinking out loud.

Pursing his lips, Haeker tilted his glass in agreement. “Oh, I have nothing against the League, quite the contrary. They’re a symbol of Amestris’ emergence from the dark age of the repressive military dictatorship, a beacon of freedom and choice. But it would be a shame if _everyone_ decided they’d rather be an Independent Alchemist than work for the State . . .” With a sigh, he placed his glass gently on his desk and folded his hands beside it. “What we need, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is some sort of . . . national icon. A heroic figure who elicits the love of the people, whose association with the Military would improve its image without tarnishing theirs. A glowing example the new generation will be only too happy to follow. An avowed enemy of the old state . . . who just happens to be a highly skilled alchemist . . .”

A small knot of suspicion had steadily been growing in Mustang’s gut while the Prime Minister gave his obviously rehearsed spontaneous musings. The calculating look in the man’s eyes was setting every political alarm bell ringing. The day that Mustang had been half-dreading since the madness that brought the Elrics back to Amestris had dawned and if he was brutally honest with himself, he still had no foolproof plan to deflect it.

The only option was to dissemble and bluff. He lowered his own glass and gave his best flattered smile. “Mr Haecker, I would be honoured to do my part to strengthen the Alchemy programme. I’m sure that even with my current duties I would be able to –”

The Prime Minister cut him off mercilessly. “I’m sure it serves your self-image and your ambitions to be some sort of teen idol, Roy, but you are far too strongly associated with the old order. Besides, you’re too old. No. We need the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Mustang breathed out through his nose, carefully concealing a resigned sigh. He waited long enough to be sure that Haecker was waiting for him to respond, then said quietly, “I'm not sure how practical that will be.”

“I think you'll find it's eminently practical. In fact, it's about the best shot in the arm public opinion could get right now. So.” The Prime Minister opened his hands. “I want you to go and persuade Edward Elric to re-enlist. Although, as it happens, he was never actually discharged in the first place. I think you might mention that to him . . . Central has been thrown into chaos on such a regular basis recently that I’m sure it’s quite possible that outstanding charges of desertion could be completely lost. Or found, as the case may be.” He looked Mustang straight in the eye. “I'm well aware that Elric has little reason to trust or care about the military but you are, I suspect, the one person who could make him change his mind. I don't care how you do it. Bribery, an appeal to his patriotism . . . an offer of marriage, all the alchemical ingredients he can eat, whatever. By hook or by crook, _get him_.”

With a smile that half-choked him, Mustang inclined his head. “I will do what I can. But . . . what, hypothetically, if I’m not able to get him to agree to come back? He can be extremely stubborn when he wants to be and I'm not exactly top of his 'favourite persons' list . . .”

Haecker cleared his throat and laced his fingers together again. “Well, _hypothetically_ , his isn’t the only dubious record that might suddenly be remembered. There are other ways to improve the public image of the military. Removing vestiges of the old order might not be as effective as recruiting an icon to the cause, but needs must. I'm sure you understand.”

Mustang dipped his glass, still smiling.

“It can’t be an official assignment, of course,” the Prime Minister went on, “You’ve got some leave coming up. I’m sure no one will object to you taking in the east. Your old stomping ground. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you again. And if you do happen to drop in on an old comrade . . . well. That’s your choice.”

“Of course, Mr Haecker.”

“Of course,” Haecker echoed, as though trying to work out if Mustang was being sarcastic by taste alone, “No travel warrants will be issued but I doubt that will cause you too much difficulty. And,” he added, a warning glint in his eye, “I want it made absolutely clear that this is not an official request. I am not issuing a Prime Ministerial edict here, Brigadier General. Any rumours to the contrary will be treated with the scorn they deserve.”

“My lips are sealed, _Mort_ ,” Mustang said over another sip of whiskey, “This has just been a little informal chat in which nothing of any importance was discussed.”

Haecker's cheek twitched, very slightly. “Don't be ridiculous,” he smiled back, cat-like, “I am the Prime Minister. Any chat with me always contains something important. The current state of the Military, for example. We must do it again some time.”

Taking the cue that the interview was over, Mustang put his glass down and rose, saluting smartly. “Thank you for the drink. Please pass my complements on to Mrs Haecker.”

“Of course. Good morning, General. Do have a pleasant day.”

Mustang's shoulder blades itched all the way back to his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I admit to a bit of bias in calling him the Prime Minister (I'm British!) but I think of all the options, it fits best with how I picture post-canon Amestris developing.  
> \- 'Haeker' is a *ahem* subtle tribute to Jim Hacker, of Yes, Minister and Yes, Prime Minister fame. By which I mean not subtle at all.


	2. A Respite (In which Ed is listless, intrigued and embarrassed in the same afternoon)

The trouble was that Ed couldn’t quite believe it.

He clamped his teeth around the screwdriver, freeing up his hand so he could lift the covering plate aside. Then, with the utmost care, he began to oil the mechanism, letting little drops fall on the gears and pistons and flexing so that they could be carried deeper into the auto-mail. It was something he had had to do every other day for years, something that he had long ago learnt to manage on his own. But, oddly enough, he had rarely done it on his own before. There had always been someone else in the room, ready to help out when he dropped a screw or couldn’t reach the pipette. Sitting alone in the air- and light-filled living room of the Rockbell house, every familiar clink and whirr sounded unnecessarily loud and eerie. There couldn’t be anyone else for miles around and the loneliness was palpable.

Perhaps that was why he was suddenly facing up to what was bothering him.

At first, it had been wonderful. After the pain of having his old auto-mail ports stripped down, the weeks spent getting over the infection and the rest of his injuries, then the agony of having the ports rebuilt, everything had settled down into a kind of blissful normality. The new arm and leg Winry had designed were probably the most advanced in the world – at least, if you believed half the things she said about them. And they were certainly comfortable. They moved with an ease that Ed had almost forgotten, quietly and smoothly and without any of the catching or grinding he’d gotten used to over the years of having to keep his auto-mail running on his own. And, most importantly, Winry herself was there to tinker and adjust until they fitted as well as any limbs a man could have been born with.

Al had returned to Resembool life, as far as anyone could tell, like a duck getting back to water. He was everywhere, chopping wood, picking apples and helping repair the storm damage that remained to be fixed. It was as if nothing had happened and he had never left. As if he had always been a natural part of this tiny world of farms and fields and wooden houses. Except that he kept winding up at the top of one or other of the rolling hills that surrounded the town, staring off at the horizon with a very thoughtful look on his face . . .

Noah was a different matter. She was a stranger in a strange land and on top of it all, she was still learning to cope without her clairvoyance. Being wary of her new surroundings and uncomfortable with the stares of the locals was totally understandable and for the first few weeks, that was exactly what she had been, shying away from company and trying to avoid the gawking farmhands. Ever so slowly though, she had begun to relax. It had helped that the initial interest her had attracted had slackened off a bit. She had gone from being an exotic outsider hailing from a far-off land to being 'the girl the Elrics are teaching alchemy.' Maybe that wasn't the greatest improvement but it was something.

It was the alchemy that had done it and that was all down to Al, really. Noah's head was full of snatches of Gate alchemy wrapped up in the brothers' memories. In theory, that should have meant she could perform transmutations of her own, now she was back in their world. But the transmutations always failed and it had been Al who realised why – though she remembered a lot of what the Elrics could do, she did not really understand it. Without the years of study and slowly won comprehension, she didn't have the foundations to truly follow how alchemy worked. So he had taken it upon himself to teach her, starting from the very basics and working up. Already, it was beginning to have the desired effect and with every successful experiment, Noah's heavy cloak of shyness slipped away that little bit more.

Ed occasionally caught himself watching the way Al acted around her and wondered if that was why he was doing it, more than anything else. Noah was – he knew abstractly – beautiful and it would have been hard to blame Al for . . . possibly maybe not being a little kid any more. But then it was Al and Al loved everyone . . .

Whatever. Life was good. The two people Ed had spent the last four years with were happy and he was as close to being complete as he was ever likely to be again. More than that, they were all _home_. The world felt right again and, with a clap of his hands, he could perform alchemy as easily as breathing.

The problem was the nagging, persistent feeling that it was all too good to be true. The gnawing certainty that he had gotten something for nothing, that he had cheated the universe and that, at any moment, the universe was bound to notice and smash his new-found contentment into tiny splinters. He knew it was irrational, that the 'Gatekeepers' had been the sacrifice to return them home and that there was logically no reason to believe that he would have to pay for being back where he belonged. But he still couldn’t help it. A lifetime of things going horribly wrong had made him distrustful of things going right.

Which was silly, because by any standard, equivalent exchange had been fulfilled. He had fought for his right to return home. And yet, at the back of his mind, a voice kept insisting that he hadn’t done enough, that he didn’t deserve happiness.

He slammed the cover plate home more roughly than was strictly necessary, trying to drive the thoughts away with violent action. It wasn’t fair, damnit. After so long fighting and running, why couldn’t he just enjoy the peace? Why did he have to keep looking over his shoulder, expecting Kimbley or Envy or Chambers or Tucker or any of the rest of them to come crawling out of the woodwork and tear his life apart again? Why did the past have to get in the way of the present? Of _his future_?

Because he let it, obviously. It was his head thinking all those gloomy thoughts, so, logically, he only kept thinking them because he kept letting himself think them. Therefore, he had to stop. He needed a project of some kind that he could fill his mind with a keep everything out.

 _Because that always works so well_.

Determined to ignore stray sarcastic thoughts, he stood up and scooped the maintenance kit back into its leather pouch. He began to search his brain for a starting point for some bit of research, for a problem that needed to be solved. Glancing down at his auto-mail hand as he took the pouch from the table, he suddenly remembered wondering about the materials prostheses were made from and how it might be possible to improve them by finding something as hard-wearing as metal that wouldn't be quite so disruptive to a normal life. Something softer, perhaps, warmer. In the same moment, he realised that he really knew very little about auto-mail materials. He knew what his arm and leg were made of, of course, but that just him. Were those materials indicative of the general trends, or where they specific to Winry, or indeed, to him?

The Rockbell library – a cupboard stuffed to bursting with dog-eared manuals and fading copies of old magazines and research papers – proved annoyingly uninformative on the matter. Ed spent nearly an hour flipped his way through page after page of force mechanics and surgical procedures, clutching at the occasional material science essays like a drowning man at string. Perhaps they all took what they had to work with for granted, or maybe they guarded their smelting methods as jealously as alchemists guarded their arrays. Or perhaps it was simply that he had no idea what their terminology was and so read over the things he was looking for without realising.

Frustrated, he jammed the last journal back in and slammed the door. The noise resounded back at him in the empty house and he flinched with guilt. In that moment, it suddenly occurred to him that he would be much better off looking at the things Winry and Aunty Pinako kept around them all the time: the kind of basic reference book you sometimes needed when you knew so much it was hard to keep track of it all. Come to think of it, hadn't he seen something like 'The Principles of Auto-mail' sitting on the workbench whenever Winry was giving him a tune-up? Oh, except they'd been tidying out the workshop to fit the new furnace, hadn't they? Any books would be piled under dust sheets or more likely put away somewhere –

Somewhere like Winry's room, which was practically a second workshop anyway.

He bounded up the stairs. Winry's room was the first at the top and the door was ajar as usual. He did hesitate when he crossed the threshold, momentarily aware that he was intruding on someone else's private space. But it was Winry and she wouldn't mind and he could always apologise later.

There was a shelf of books in the corner, on which he vaguely recognised a few Important Novels Of The Age and several more trashy romances of the sort you could buy at train stations – neither category appeared to have been read much. There was an irregular line of dog eared children's books, almost all of which he remembered from growing up. And there were half a dozen of what looked like photo albums. Surprisingly nothing at all to do with auto-mail.

Then his eyes tracked out into the rest of the room and he remembered what Winry's reading habits were like.

Books lay scattered across the desk, the bed and right across the floor, together with enough technical drawings to paper the walls three times over. Ed wasn't sure if the bits of metal and the tools mixed in were being used as bookmarks or were simply there because, well, it was Winry and Winry and tools just went together. It was the natural order of things, like water being oxygen and hydrogen.

He began methodically working his way through the room, looking for the most well read text-books. There had to be something: a primer or a reference book that Winry kept using even though she was pretty much an expert. There was always something like that: the thing with the useful diagrams and the vital charts.

He got as far as the desk without luck and stopped for a moment, eyes flicking up to the pictures pinned to the wall between sets of schematics. People, he noticed. Himself. Al. Pinako and Den and Paninya and Sheska. Dozens of moments from different times and places, each stirring their own set of memories. Mostly. There were a few he did not recognise – people gathered in the dusty streets of Rush Valley, Sheska looking awkward in Military blue, an Al no older than in the photos from before the armour, a group shot of everyone out in front of the house, Al and Den, Pinako with her pipe, Rose and her baby, a dark, sullen figure lurking at the side . . .

Ed peered at that one, squinting to try and make out the details. Al had told him what had happened to Wrath, what the homunculus had done to try and bring them back together. It left Ed numb inside. He would never get the chance to thank Wrath or to really admit how wrong he had been about him. He wondered sometimes, in the darker stretches of the night, what the little 'tainted' child could have made of his life if he had never got caught up in the madness that followed the Elrics around. If he had just been allowed to be who he had wanted to be.

But that was never going to happen and there was no way to change it now. Ed shook himself and looked down at the desk, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. He picked up one of the books piled against the wall, turning it over to see the title. 'Advanced Motor Construction'. Not a good start but the next one down read 'Material Properties in an Auto-Mail Context', which was more promising. And beneath that was 'General Manufacturing Techniques: A Primer' which had to be exactly where he needed to start.

He flicked through the contents and then the index, quickly gauging the terminology. It looked like the basic nomenclature matched more or less to what he was used to. So if he began with the outline advice on starting materials and went from there, he should be able to build the vocabulary he needed to read up on the more advanced –

“Ed?”

His hands snapped the book shut almost of their own accord and he looked around guiltily, mouth open to explain. Winry was standing just inside the door, her tool-box still slung over her arm. She looked dog tired and there were fresh grease stains on her cheek and forehead. And he was struck all at once how much older she was. Not _old_ old. But older. Grown up. Because she was. Time hadn't stood still while he'd been in the other world. The image he had carried of her in his mind, of the long legged girl in the miniskirt and black jacket, that was the past. This Winry, the real Winry, was not the same. It was an odd feeling and it robbed him of what he was going to say.

She stepped closer as he gaped, shrugging off the box and setting it down by the desk. There was concern in her expression, not irritation or even surprise that he was in her room. “Are you OK?”

“Err . . . yeah. Yeah, m'fine. I was –” He held up the book as Exhibit A. “– looking for something to read.”

“Oh. OK. You . . . sure you want to read that?”

“Oh yeah! I – well – you're always telling me I should pay more attention to my auto-mail, so . . . I should. You . . . don't mind, do you?”

For a second, her smile made all the tiredness vanish from her face. “Of course I don't, dummy! You should have asked. What do you want to know about?”

“Err . . . materials, mainly. I figure that's the stuff I'll understand and, hey, it's what alchemy's all about. Maybe there's something I could do to help you – hey, I'm sorry about just coming in here. You sure you don't mind?”

The look she gave him made him suspect she thought he had some sort of brain damage. “Of course I don't. Ed, you can come in here any time you like.”

Ed felt his neck growing hot. He was abruptly and painfully aware that they were the only two people for miles around and that Winry was barely a foot away and that he basically had no idea what he was supposed to do about either of these two things.

“Thanks!” he squeaked, circling quickly around so that she was no longer between him and the door, “You probably want to get cleaned up and changed and everything – I'll just go and flick through this and we can talk about it when you're, um, when you're when –”

“Ed –”

He stopped mid-escape, vibrating slightly with the need to be somewhere, anywhere else before he said something really, really stupid. “Err . . . yeah?”

“Look, Ed – we need to –”

Then the doorbell went and Ed was able to flee with a shout of “I'll get it” and really that was probably the best thing that could have happened. Oh yes, he agreed with himself as he raced downstairs, this was definitely better than the alternative. There was much less chance of him making a complete fool of himself just answering the door – and actually, if it was a whole army of homunculi and chimeras and Nazis and maybe even the Gate itself come back for the rest of his limbs, that was almost certainly preferable to having to . . . to . . . well anyway, it was definitely the safer option.

Positively glowing with relief, he yanked the door open and gave his broadest, most welcoming grin to the person who obviously had _the best timing in the whole world_ and had chosen that precise moment to arrive.

General Mustang took a smart step backwards and looked around wildly.

Ed's grin snapped off. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mustang arched his eyebrow and relaxed. “Would you believe, to offer you a job?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ed, as may have been noted elsewhere, is a bit of an idiot when it comes to feelings.  
> \- It is worth pointing out sometimes, I think, that Winry's job is incredibly hard and demanding and that engineers are no slouches when it comes to dealing with complicated materials sciences.  
> \- It is also worth pointing out that this fic, unlike the previous two in the series, has never been posted anywhere else before!


	3. A Proposition (In which there is a frank and open conversation. And a cow)

“This place looks better when you're not planning treason.” Mustang stopped and looked back down the road. Resembool stretched out below them, a pleasing patchwork of fields, houses and more fields. All dull as ditch-water of course but he was less inclined to think there were snipers behind every tree than the last time he'd taken the time to walk around the place.

Further up the hill, Fullmetal stopped and glared sullenly back at him. Mustang, who considered himself a connoisseur of Elric death-glares, rated this one a fairly poor effort. Either Fullmetal was not as unhappy to see him as he was pretending or there were other things on his mind.

“You wanted to talk to me in private. Out here is about as private as you're gonna get.”

“I'm not complaining,” Mustang assured him, “This is perfect.”

Fullmetal grunted and set off again, stamping along without really bothering to wait for the other half of the alleged conversation to catch up. Mustang sighed and strode after him.

He finally got alongside as they crested the hill and started down into the next dip. Fullmetal stormed along, eyes fixed on the road ahead, doing nothing to acknowledge Mustang's existence. Perhaps he hoped to banish him by force of scowl. Mustang sighed again. “You're looking well,” he offered.

Fullmetal took it as an insult. “Yeah,” he snapped, “I'm fine.”

“Certainly better than you were the last time I saw you. Wasted and feverish doesn't look good on you.”

“Hn.”

“What about Alphonse? Is he keeping well?”

“Al's fine.”

“Miss Rockbell and Miss Noah? Both fine as well?”

“They're – look.” At last, Fullmetal deigned to glance his way. “Can we just get to the bit where you tell me what you want so I can tell you to fuck off and then get on with the rest of my life?”

“Hm.” Mustang smiled and scratched the side of his chin. “You know some people might look at what we've been through together and conclude that we perhaps owed each other a bit of loyalty and comradeship.”

“Yeah, they're the idiots who don't notice that every time you show up, my life goes to hell.”

He opened his mouth to argue then thought about it. “I don't think that's actually my fault,” he said reasonably, “I'm usually responding to something you've done.”

Fullmetal's scowl actually managed to deepen. Then, with shocking suddenness, he laughed. “What do you want?”

“I told you. To offer you a job.”

“Yeah, right. You came all the way out here on your own for that.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“I don't see Hawkeye with you. Or anyone else you can boss around. And you're not wearing your uniform. So yeah, it is. Here, come on.”

Clambering up on to the fence at the side of the road, Fullmetal swung himself over into the field beyond. Mustang eyed the fence incredulously. “Road not good enough for you?”

“This'll take us round above town and back down again. Come on! The grass isn't going to bite you, Mustang.”

“All right . . . but if I get country on these shoes, I'm billing the replacement to you.” Somewhat less agilely, he followed Fullmetal's lead.

“Didn't they have fields were you grew up?”

“Absolutely,” Mustang retorted, “Then I went to the city and discovered the wonders of paving.”

They looked at each other and for a second the only noise came from the birds and the leaves in the trees. “Do you really distrust me that much, Ed?” Mustang asked quietly.

Fullmetal's stare was uncomfortably direct, almost hawk-like. Shorn of its puppy fat, his face had lost some of its openness. There were lines around his eyes and the ghost of hollowness in his cheeks that made him look harder, less forgiving than when they had said their farewells in Central all that time ago. Mustang held his gaze, unblinking.

“Maybe I understand you,” Fullmetal said eventually, turning away with an offhand shrug, “More than I used to. That's something, right?”

“It's something,” Mustang agreed, trudging after him.

“But you keep secrets like other people breathe and I'm done with secrets.”

And of course that made sense and of course he was right. Old habits, hard to break, probably never would be. But understanding. That _was_ something.

“So.” Mustang cleared his throat, falling into step beside Fullmetal and trying not to think about the damp seeping into the cuffs of his trousers. “What do you know about the Prime Minister?”

“The guy running the country now? Just what I've read in the papers. Seems . . . popular. Like he's keeping things together pretty well. What? You going to tell me he's an undead alchemy construct who wants to kill us all?”

“Heh. Not as far as I know. No . . . he is popular, you're right. And he's popular because he's a very good politician. He keeps things together by keeping people happy with him even if they're not happy with each other.”

“Hn. So he gives the Ishbalans back their land –”

“– and gives the Amestrians who're displaced back west lots of concessions on new building land. Right. Gets to be the one giving both times. He likes images. Likes being the one at the centre of things giving the big speech, shaking the right hands, kissing the right babies.”

“Gee, who does that remind me of?”

“Only he does it by controlling the image at every turn. Public appearances, press, every time he stands up in the Assembly – he's planned it, worked it through, worked out everything that can happen and made sure what he wants to does. The man handles politics like other people plan wars.”

“So what?” Fullmetal sounded dismissive but Mustang suspected he was paying very close attention now. “Is that bad if he's doing the right thing? Or are you just sore it's not you running the country?”

“No. It's not bad. And –” Children, barely unable to fire their rifles, terrified behind the fire. Maes Hughes' smile reflected in whiskey. Winry Rockbell's look of contempt. _Salem Bradley struggling to breathe as his father's hands crushed the life from him._

Mustang put a hand to the left side of his face, as though that would somehow block out the memories.

“Hey?” He opened his eye. Fullmetal tilted his head to the side. “You OK?”

“I'm not the man who wanted to rule the world any more,” Mustang told him, forcing a smile.

Concern briefly replaced the scowl, which was oddly sweet. Just for a moment, the wide-eyed kid was back. Then Fullmetal smirked. “You're getting old, you mean.”

“That's maturity, Fullmetal. You wouldn't recognise it.”

They had left the trees behind and the sky stretched endlessly over them as they walked uphill again. The meadow was tangled with weeds and wild-flowers, unattended by any farmer's mowing. Left fallow or simply abandoned, Mustang wondered. Not that it really mattered.

“The point is not that Haecker is bad for the country,” he told Fullmetal, “He might even be the best option there is. But don't mistake that for being a nice man. If you get in his way, he will find a way to move you and if he can't be pleasant about it, he will be ruthless.”

“Not actually planning on being in his way, you know.”

“Perhaps not. But he's planning on reforming the State Alchemists.”

“Still not seeing why this is a bad thing. Or anything to do with me.”

Mustang stopped dead. “Edward, what do you think I have been doing over the past three years?”

“Um.” Fullmetal's confusion was obvious. “I don't know, perfecting your pirate impression . . . ?”

“I've been working to try and find a way of ending the State Alchemy Programme. Not improving it or giving it a nicer reputation – of ending it. Of shutting it down and making sure the State can never use the weapons it used in Ishbal ever again. I'm never going to be Führer and I don't have anywhere near the influence I'd need to reform the Military as I would like but I can do _something_ towards making sure that alchemy in this country means more than a colourful way of blowing people up. And that isn't that easy. State Alchemists are everywhere. They're the State's surveyors, its mining specialists, they check coal for its quality, gold for its purity, goods for their value. They work on improving roads, building bridges, farming crops, digging reservoirs – hell, the government's official entertainment division relies on the Sky Dragon Alchemist for its firework displays! There are hundreds of State Alchemists who signed up for access to the State Archives for their research, who've never hurt anyone in their lives and without whom this country would fall apart.”

He could see the wheels turning in Fullmetal's brain, assessing the problem, considering solutions. He ploughed on, not wanted to give him time to respond just yet. “But each and every one of them is part of the Military system. Bradley made sure they all had enough authority to be perfectly placed to go off on quests for the Philosopher's Stone if they wanted. Every State Alchemist starts as a major. They command units, divisions, departments. There are thousands of soldiers who are dependant on them for leadership. It isn't possible to just transfer them out of the Military. And the Prime Minister knows that. And he also knows what is going to happen now that people actually have alternatives to being State Alchemists. The League of Independent Alchemists is new but they've already put together an impressive library. If more people start joining them than the Programme, there aren't going to be enough surveyors or bridge builders to go around.”

“So he needs to make the State Alchemists look better. He _is_ going to try and give it a nicer reputation. Right?” Fullmetal rested his left hand on his auto-mail fist. “If he's obsessed with image, that's what he'd do.”

“Right,” Mustang agreed. “And he's decided the only way he can do that is by bringing back a shining example of what a good State Alchemist can be.”

It took a few moments. Fullmetal's mouth and frown worked soundlessly as he put the pieces together. Then –

“NO FRIKKIN' WAY!” The outburst must have carried for miles in every direction. Arms wind-milling through a series of jerky, angry gestures, he wheeled on the spot, shouting at the world in general. “I am done with being someone else's PET DOG! He wants a poster boy, he can find someone else – it's NOT GONNA BE ME!”

“Would it help if I said I told him you'd say that?” Mustang asked.

The tantrum stopped as quickly as it had started, giving way instantly to deep suspicion. “Yeah? What did he say?”

“He threatened to have you court marshalled for desertion.”

“He – what?!”

“Technically,” and Mustang emphasised the word, “you have been a deserter ever since you went absent without leave during the Liore crisis. Were the Military police or courts ever to chose to pursue the matter, you could be charged, brought to trial and, if found guilty, imprisoned.”

Fullmetal's eyes widened. “They'd – no. That was because – everything with the Führer and Scar – and even if it wasn't, if this guy wants me to inspire people, he can't just lock me up.”

“It's probably a bluff. Or at least something he is very unlikely to do. When the government changed, they made sure to tell everyone that you – and me and everyone who helped us – had been part of a group working to stop the Führer’s illegal experiments and warmongering. That was convenient for them and meant they had the backing of at least some parts of the Military. Going back on that wouldn't be smart. _But_ there is nothing to stop them coming after you when it becomes more common knowledge that you're alive and you don't join back up. _That_ would still count. And even if they didn't do that, do you have any idea how miserable the Prime Minister of this country could make your life if he wanted? I mean come on Ed, what are you planning on doing the rest of your life? Research? Good luck getting access to any of the materials you need. Working as a jobbing alchemist? They'll come after you for malpractice or lack of certification.” Mustang flicked at his sleeve. “They might even accuse you of being an imposter, trading on the reputation of a dead hero. Wouldn't that be funny? Perhaps they'll take Alphonse and Miss Rockbell in as your conspirators.”

Fullmetal trembled, fists clenched so tightly the tendons in his left arm stood out as sharply as the wires in his right. Once, Mustang might have simply accepted that as something he just had to wait for the younger man to get through before the sensible conversation could continue. It had just been part of talking to Edward Elric, a game that needed to be played. Now, age or maybe some understanding of his own made him regret the cruelty of what he was doing.

“I'm not saying this to convince you,” he went on, “I just want you to know what you'll have to deal with if you refuse.”

“The Prime Minister sent you down here because he thought you'd be able to convince me, didn't he?” Fullmetal folded his arms and jerked his head around to stare over the farms below.

“Yes. If it had been up to me, you'd have been left alone for the rest of your life.”

“So how'd he convince _you_?”

“You're not the only one he can threaten.”

“Hah! So all this is just to save your career – gah!” He pushed a hand against his forehead. “No, sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.” He looked back at Mustang, peering from under his fringe. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. It's true. But I also came because I owe you enough to do this in person.”

“Urgh.” Fullmetal stalked to the crest of the rise and dropped down into the grass. A second later, he flopped on to his back. “Is a normal life too much to ask? After everything – can't I just – just stay here?!”

Taking his time, Mustang wandered up and sat beside him, grimacing as one of the old sword wounds in his side twinged. “Not really equivalent, is it? Look, I don't think you'll ever live a normal life if you stay here but if you want to leave, go somewhere where they've never heard of the Fullmetal Alchemist – there are people I know who could help.”

“You offering to sneak me out of the country, Mustang?”

“Do you want me to?”

To give him credit, Ed didn't hesitate. “No, of course I don't.” He pressed his hands to his face. “I can't just leave Al and Winry and Noah here if they could get in trouble and I can't expect them to leave everything behind. And hell, if you helped me get away and anyone found out, they'd lock _you_ up. And then I'd have to come back and bust your useless ass out and we'd be right back where we started.”

“You'd do that for me? I never knew you cared.”

“Shuddup. No, wait.” He sat up. “Tell me what you think I should do.”

“You want my advice?”

“Yeah, I do. And you want to give it. So go on.”

“Really? OK then . . .” Mustang hesitated, a little thrown. “I think you should go through with it. I think you should rejoin the Military as a State Alchemist – on your own terms. The Prime Minister is prepared to make a fight of this, so chose your battlefield. Tell him that if he wants you to join up again, you'll do it only if you're treated like any other State Alchemist. No parades, no big speeches, no being put in charge of recruitment drives. Tell him you want your research subjected to the same oversight and review as everyone else. And tell him you want to be stationed in Central. He'll like that, would probably have suggested it anyway – but it'll mean I can get you under my jurisdiction. Maybe even directly under my command. That way I can keep you clear of the worst of it. Above all, we need to work together on this. Do a little image control of our own. I'm not saying for sure we can beat Haecker at his own game but we can have a damn good try at stacking the deck in our favour.”

Fullmetal gnawed at a knuckle thoughtfully. His eyes had drifted out of focus, as if imagining how things would play out. Then he put his head back to follow the lazy progress of one of the clouds. “Would you have wanted me to come back anyway? You said you'd have left me alone but that's not the same thing. Would you?”

“I . . .” Mustang hunched forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I expected you'd get bored out of your skull stuck in a place like this for the rest of your life. If you'd wanted to come back, I'd have been happy to find a place for you. And I need all the decent alchemists I can find to get everything straightened out. I need allies. I've precious few of those left. And . . .” And this was the real admission. The one he did not want to make aloud because it felt like weakness and too much like the truth. “I don't trust myself. I don't trust myself to get the job done right and not quit until it _is_ done. Hawkeye and Havoc have my back but they think I'm a good man, deep down. They'd have backed me all the way to becoming dictator because of that. I need someone who knows me, who can keep me in check and keep me from surrendering. Armstrong might have done that, but he's retired. Maes could have done it . . .”

Much to his surprise, Ed actually gripped his shoulder. “You miss him.”

He laughed at the obviousness of the statement. “Maes Hughes was the best man I ever knew. He kept me . . . good. Not necessarily honest but good. I need that now.”

“And you think _I_ can do that?” Fullmetal did not sound like he believed it for a second.

“You can tell me when I'm being an idiot, tear my plans to pieces without trying and shout me down in front of every single one of my men. It's not the same method, but it might work.”

With a laugh, Fullmetal sprang to his feet. He stretched, looking again at Resembool in all its phlegmatic glory. “Yeah. Maybe it might.” He turned and offered Mustang his hand – the real one. “I'm not saying yes,” he said has he heaved him up, “I don't . . . I need to think about it. But . . . thanks.”

“For sending your life to hell again?”

“For having the guts to come and do it to my face. And everything else. Helping out. Coming after us. Having my back.”

Mustang held the grip and bowed his head, just a little. “It's an honour.”

From immediately behind him, something made a noise like a wounded foghorn. He whirled, startled out of his skin, automatically reaching for a glove that wasn't in his pocket. A stout brown cow examined him blearily, its great lips smacking gently as it chewed the cud.

Fullmetal doubled over in hysterics, every shred of maturity scattered to the wind. “The Flame Alchemist!” he wheezed between shuddering guffaws, “faces his greatest enemy – an escaped heifer!”

Pulling his dignity back together, Mustang treated him to a withering look and reached up to scratch the cow behind the ears. “Ignore him. No one's ever been able to teach him any manners. Now where exactly have you gotten out from, hmm?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As it happens, Mustang has indeed perfected his pirate impression. It took him one very long and arduous afternoon while trying to avoid filling in his monthly expenses forms.


	4. A Decision (In which Winry is a spectator and Mustang gets his answer)

It'd taken a while for Winry to get used to not being the first up in the morning. In Rush Valley, Dominic expected her to have the shop open and running by the time he came down and Paninya could sleep right through midday if there was no construction work going. At home, Granny usually came down only after she heard Winry do the same even though Winry suspected that she woke much earlier. A sneaky move to make sure someone else got the coffee pot going and ready by the time she arrived, one that her granddaughter wholeheartedly approved of now that she was able to enjoy it too.

It had started with coming down to find Al bustling around the kitchen, all nervous energy as he got ready for another day trying to keep himself occupied away from Ed's bedside. Then, as Noah's alchemy training became more serious, she would be there as well, the two of them setting up the breakfast things before they started exercising And then of course Ed got back on his feet and the _clump-thump_ , _clump-thump_ of him going downstairs became her alarm clock.

Sometimes he would be first up. Sometimes it would be Al and others, Noah. Winry had learnt to distinguish which from the taste of the first pot of coffee.

This morning, it had been Ed. She stuck her tongue out at the extreme bitterness and yanked the top off the sugar bowl. From outside, she could hear the irregular thumps and grunts of two alchemists sparring. Heaping spoonfuls into her drink, she listened with half an ear, judging the weight of the blows. Then, cupping the mug in her hands, she ambled out on to the veranda.

She had been right. Down past the wall, on the flat bit before the road curved, Noah and Al were dancing around one another, their long limbs flashing out in what to Winry were a dizzying sequence of moves. They both had their hair tied tight back – she knew Al could fight just as well with it in a ponytail but suspected he kept it pinned up when fighting with Noah to stop it distracting her – and wore old shirts and trousers that didn't need to be kept clean. When, months ago, they had started training like this, Noah's movements had been hesitant and clumsy and Al had slowed right down to help her. Now she moved with fresh assurance, her body spinning elegantly in much the same way it did when she danced. Her strikes at Al still looked a little nervous but she blocked with confidence and they whirled through the forms at increasing speed.

Winry wondered sometimes whether she should feel envious of the other girl's grace. It allowed her to share something with the brothers that Winry never would: the physical exhilaration they all seemed to find in being able to move around like that. She didn't though. There was too much else that they shared – that they all now shared – for that.

Her eyes drifted away across the landscape. It was going to be another fine morning. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and she could see right the way to the mountains and forests. Smoke rose from the town as Resembool got its teeth into the day and closer to home, coming along the winding road . . .

A single dark figure strolling towards the house, bobbing out of sight into a dip and then cresting the rise.

She sighed and swigged her coffee. Ed had told them all what General Mustang had said. The General himself had apparently excused himself before they got back to the house, saying he already had a room at the local inn and didn't want to impose on them for dinner. Granny had fetched Ed around the head with a dish cloth and told him he should have insisted but it was done. So instead in was just the five of them who talked about it through the evening, arguing back and forward until Ed cut them all off saying it was his decision and he need to think about it on his own.

Which was probably true. And did nothing to stop them worrying about what he was going to decide.

He shouldn't have to go back. It was utterly unfair that anyone would even ask after everything he had been through. Winry felt violently angry towards the man who had done so and resolved never to vote for him again. In fact, she would have more than a few words for him if they ever happened to meet. But realistically, there was nothing any of them could do about it, no matter how many crazy plans Al came up with.

He'd been on fine form last night, proposing everything from going along with General Mustang's offer to leave the country to suggesting that they found the Independent State of Resembool and getting louder and louder as the rest of them pointed out the flaws. By the time Ed slipped away to his room, Al was seething, wearing a trench in the living room floor from pacing and generally looking ready to hit something. It had taken Winry and Noah an hour to calm him down and even then he went to bed grumpy and sullen.

It looked like sleep had cured him of that. Or perhaps he was just grinning because sparring let him focus on something else.

Either way, it was good. No matter how tempting it was to reach for the wrench and go brain the government, Winry knew they had to keep level heads. That was what the General was doing, coming down from Central and planning how they could make the best of the situation. Granny too pointed out that they were five people with a lot of friends and that was a double edged sword. It made them vulnerable but it also meant they had options and if they were all clever, they could surely work something out.

Was that what Ed was doing now, wherever he was? Trying to work out what to do? Of course he was. He'd be somewhere, all his thoughts turned inward, dissecting the problem in the same way she would take apart a faulty foot. She could imagine his distant expression as he wandered about, distractedly picking things up and turning them around in his hands, occasionally sinking his teeth into his bottom lip –

Another swig of coffee shocked her enough for the image to, if not vanish, at least put its shirt back on. She pressed fingers into her eyeballs, trying not to think about not thinking. General Mustang was nearly at the wall now anyway. He walked unhurriedly, if slightly stiffly, and on seeing Al and Noah, he stopped for a moment to watch. They were too engrossed to notice him though and he moved on.

Winry waved to him and straightened up. He lifted his hand in response and she wandered to the top of the steps to meet him. “Morning!”

“Good morning, Miss Rockbell,” he greeted, as formal as he always was around her, “I hope it finds you well.”

“Oh, I'm OK. Can I get you some coffee? Ed made it but it's not too bad if you hold your nose.”

He smiled, closing his eye. “Sounds marvellous.”

They went through to the kitchen and she dug another mug out of the dresser. “Were you OK at the inn?”

“I've slept in much worse places. No, that's unfair. It was pleasant. Thank you.” He took the offered mug and sipped it experimentally. She should have known that he wouldn't mind the heat. More surprisingly, he did not wince at the taste. “Not bad,” he murmured.

“If you say so.”

He smiled, gaze drifting around the room, to the cooker, the fruit bowl, the shelves, anywhere where Winry wasn't.

“Miss Noah seems to be becoming quite proficient,” he observed suddenly, “I'm surprised she's taken quite so well to the Elric school of alchemy. Always seemed a bit too energetic for my tastes.”

“You should see her transmutations.”

“I'd like that –”

“Mustang!” Ed's head appeared around the door, closely followed by a thick sheaf of papers, which he thrust in the vague direction of their visitor. “Great! You can check this adds up while I go and kick Al on his ass.” Waiting just long enough for his gift to be accepted, he dashed away and clomped out of the house. As Mustang frowned at the papers, they heard him yell out, “Hey, Noah! Let someone else have a go at beating him up for a while, will yah?”

“Well he seems . . . happy.” Winry was not quite sure that was the right word. Smiling Ed Elrics came in several varieties and not all of them actually lined up with what other people considered 'happy'. “What's that?”

“Hm?” Mustang had almost immediately become engrossed in whatever it was Ed had handed him. “Oh. It appears to be an alchemic research paper. To do with increasing efficiency. So that arrays do more with less energy,” he clarified unnecessarily.

“I didn't know he was actually writing anything up . . .” Winry experienced the sudden vision of Ed dashing the whole thing off in the hour he had been awake. She would not have put it past him.

“Shall I leave you to read it?” she asked, “I think I'll go out front again.”

“Not at all. I'll join you if I may.” He smirked and his eye twinkled darkly. “I'm sure the sight of Fullmetal flying through the air will be the perfect accompaniment to his genius.”

Fullmetal. The General called him that all the time, far more than he called him Ed or Edward. None of the rest of them would have dreamed of using the name but from him, it seemed to be a term of affection. Of respect. She wondered if Ed saw it that way, or if he just assumed Mustang was doing it to wind him up. Equal odds, probably. Which was kind of a shame.

She glanced sideways at the General as they walked back outside. He was already pouring over Ed's paper, eye flicking across the cramped lines of handwriting. After about a page, he let out a small surprised noise and reread whatever it was, using a finger to trace the words. Winry smiled to herself. 'Genius' was not a word that Roy Mustang used for Ed lightly, no matter how mocking he made it sound.

Noah glided up the steps, wishing them both a good morning before disappearing into the house to get changed. Down the hill, Ed had taken her place, squaring off against Al in a pair of worn shorts and a loose shirt he hadn't bothered to button up. She caught glimpses of his chest as the brothers circled around each other, the scars and puckered flesh around his auto-mail socket that she had stared at so often, worrying if she had done enough to make the connection comfortable for him. Rebuilding the ports had been a slow, painful process that she hoped never to have to repeat. Ed hadn't complained once.

They were talking to each other, just low enough that the clear air did not carry it up to the house. Al reached up and unwound his hair, fixing it back into its normal ponytail. Then Ed threw a left hook and they were off. If Noah and Al's sparring had been dizzying, the way the Elric brothers fought was _blinding_. They hurtled around one another like tornadoes, kicks and punches striking like lightning. OK, perhaps Winry was exaggerating that a little bit in her brain but it was still frighteningly impressive.

Ed tried to dart around behind Al and there was a moment when they were locked together, Al's arms bent at an awkward angle to catch Ed's hands, and she realised they were still talking, exchanging breathless snatches of conversation as they struggled. Al rolled suddenly and pitched Ed on to his back. He sprang up into a sweeping kick that would have taken Al's legs out from under him if he hadn't already been a foot in the air already, coming down at exactly the right point to use his brother's shoulders as a vaulting horse.

The look of outrage on Ed's face was priceless.

“Don't let them hear me say this,” the General murmured, the alchemy paper either finished or forgotten in his hands, “but I do sometimes wish my teacher had taught me how to do that.”

“I guess not all alchemists are as scary as Mrs Curtis, huh?”

“Not many so . . . physical about their training, certainly. It's quite a show.”

The way he said it made her abruptly realise quite how much attention she had been paying to the way Ed's body was moving, to the auto-mail flexing as he jumped and darted and to what the rest of him was doing as well. She considered trying to pass it off as professional scrutiny but she was already blushing. Al slipped around his brother's defences and arm-locked him, Ed's shirt flapping wide open in the instant before he was sent sprawling. “Great big show-offs, the pair of them,” Winry muttered, switching her attention to her half-empty coffee mug.

“If it's any consolation, I'm reasonably sure Fullmetal doesn't realise what he's doing.”

“I _know_ he doesn't.”

The General's tone became sympathetic. “He still hasn't said anything to you about how he feels?”

“I don't even know if I want him to. Or if he wants me to. I – gah! We’re friends. We’ve been friends for years. Forever. It feels like if I said anything I'd be spoiling that and he . . . it’s like he’s scared of me sometimes. And others . . .” She folded her arms on top of the veranda rail and rested her chin on them. “He'll look at me like, I don't know. I wish he’d just tell me, one way or the other.”

“Sometimes . . .” Mustang paused thoughtfully, staring unseeing into the distance. “Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what you feel from what you think you feel. Or what you want from what you think you should want. And that’s just if you’ve lived a normal life. Edward has seen and done things that are hard to believe or explain. There are probably very few things in his life that he’s absolutely sure of any more. Even if that weren’t the case, as far as I know he’s never tried being close to anyone. Not like that. Perhaps he doesn’t want to risk getting it wrong. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be involved with anyone. Perhaps he just doesn’t like girls in that way. Whatever the case, I don’t think either of you are going to work it out if you keep waiting for the other to make the first move.”

“So, what? You’re saying I should just jump him?”

Mustang snorted. “I am saying that if you hesitate too long, then you’ll never know. Which will be a very great shame.”

“Worse than it all going wrong and us never speaking again?”

“Worse than it all going right and you finding that you both enjoy it a very great deal.” His face darkened abruptly and he braced himself against the rail as well. “Miss Rockbell – Winry. I want you to know that I sincerely hate the idea of taking him away from you again. If I could stop this –”

“You would have done, I know.” Straightening, she put her head on one side. “I know you hate this as much as the rest of us. But . . . he'd have gone away again sooner or later.” She nodded towards Ed and Al, who had now abandoned all pretence of technique and were rolling about in the grass in a tangle of flailing limbs. “They've still not worked out they're as getting as antsy as each other. But they would have done and then they'd have been back wandering around the country just for the fun of it. They need something to do or they start climbing the walls. Al's teaching Noah but Ed? He'd go mad stuck in one place all the time, no matter what he says. Don't worry about taking him away. I know he'll be coming back. Or,” she added as an afterthought, “I'll be coming after him to fix his arm and leg again.”

The General glanced at her again, then half-smiled. “He really is lucky to have you. As his mechanic, let alone his friend.”

“I've put a lot of work into that auto-mail. No way I'm letting it out of my sight for too long. Not again,” she added quietly

The fight seemed to have wound down. Ed and Al were sitting opposite each other, heads together, talking earnestly. After about a minute of that, they got up together and started walking up to the house, Al with his hands in his pockets, Ed scrubbing grass out of his hair.

Noah appeared on the veranda again, dressed in one of her long woollen dresses. Den loped along beside her and flopped down at Winry's feet with a great big doggie yawn, the kind that made it look like her jaw was coming unhitched. The smell of Granny's pipe drifted out from the house.

Ed and Al stopped a little way in front of the veranda and looked up at the four of them lined up there. Al was chewing his lip, looking mildly pissed off with his brother, which by Al standards meant 'I really hate you right now.' Ed did not seem to have noticed, or was ignoring him. “How's it look, Mustang?”

The General tapped the papers. “Sound work, Fullmetal. You might want to take out some of the expletives before you submit it for publication though.”

“I’ll think about it.” Ed’s grin faded. “I’ve decided. I’m gonna do it. Join up again. And I’m going to do what you said: do it on my own terms. So these are my conditions.”

He started holding up fingers. “First, all that stuff about not getting used and being posted under you. Second: no one orders me to kill. Ever. If I have to fight, it’ll be to protect people, not hurt them.”

Mustang nodded silently.

“Three: my friends and family get left alone. Anyone wants to blame someone for everything we did, they can blame me. No one else gets involved. And four: I want a promise that Al will never be allowed to join the Military.”

“Brother, you don’t have to –”

“Yes Al, I do. Al will never be allowed to join up and will never be conscripted – he’ll just never be part of it, OK? Not even if he wants to. And not just him! If he ever has kids, they’re not gonna be allowed to join the Military either. And if, uh, I ever have kids, them neither.” His cheeks went red as he said that. “Just ‘cos Elrics make the best alchemists doesn't mean anyone's going to be collecting a set. Got it?”

“Got it.”The General sounded solemn but amusement was tugging at his mouth.

Ed scowled at him. “And there's one other thing . . .” His expression became evil. “I'll have to get recertified, right? After all this time, I gotta need to get tested again.”

“If they do it by the book. This paper would be more than enough –”

“Nah, that's just theory. They'll need to see something practical too. Like say, a combat trial.”

“Fullmetal . . .”

Ed jabbed with a single metal finger. “You and me, Mustang. Rematch.”

Al and Winry rolled their eyes. The General just raised his eyebrow. “Still a glutton for punishment, huh? OK Fullmetal. I think I can arrange that. Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually – do I have to wear that stupid uniform –?”

“I think what brother means,” Al said, thumping Ed across the shoulders, “is that those are his conditions and do you think it'll all work out OK?”

“I think they sound like an excellent set of demands,” Mustang said, tipping the research paper in salute, “I suggest you write them up and I'll deliver them to the Prime Minister personally.”

“You sure that's such a good idea?” Winry asked, thinking about the consequences of annoying the man who ran the country.

The General gave her his most charming smile. “It will be my pleasure.”

“Well now that nonsense is settled,” Granny said, appearing in the doorway behind him, “All of you had better get in here before breakfast goes cold.”


	5. A Challenge (In which there is a rematch)

There was an autumn chill in the air as Brigadier General Roy Mustang strolled out on to the parade ground to the sound of riotous cheering.

Not that anyone was actually cheering _for_ him. Oh no. The cheers were for the blonde pipsqueak on the other side of the expanse of concrete, looking awkward and self-conscious amidst the adoration.

“Fullmetal! Fullmetal! Fullmetal!”

Word of the fight had spread like wildfire over the past few days. Anticipation had been building within the halls of Headquarters and spilled out into the city proper. Soldiers crammed the stands but so did ordinary civilians and a whole army of journalists ready to capture the big event. There was a box for the Prime Minister and his cronies and a hoard of people selling food on sticks to the crowd. Some bright spark had even hoisted up the flags of all five cities next to the national flag, just to make sure that everyone knew that this was An Occasion.

Ignoring the wave of slightly less flattering shouting that greeted his arrival, Mustang considered his erstwhile opponent. Fullmetal was bare sleeved in a Military-issue vest, his auto-mail clear for everyone to see. He had dug up a battered pair of leather combat trousers from somewhere and finished off the ensemble with heavy steel-toecap boots. All he needed was a journeyman's jacket and he would have been the image of his younger self, give or take the odd inch. Was that deliberate or just what he felt comfortable fighting in? Was this an effort to remind people who he really was or just a reflection of that?

For that matter, why ask for the fight in the first place? Was it really just an excuse to get a bit of justified revenge and make good on all those promises to punch Mustang in the face? Or was there a bigger agenda here that Ed had not seen fit to inform him about?

Fullmetal might give the impression that he was brusquely honest but any good alchemist had a mind like a corkscrew and Fullmetal was a truly brilliant one. Underestimating his capacity for deviousness would be a woeful error of judgement.

Or maybe Mustang was just being paranoid. And anyway, there was only one way to go into the fight and that was aiming to win.

He caught Fullmetal's eye and smiled the knowing smile he knew infuriated the younger man. Ed glared back at him, crossing his arms defensively. He really did not look happy being there. The reality of having his name shouted to the heavens by an adoring audience was obviously overwhelming. Mustang had warned him, of course, but that would not have prepared him for it. Getting 'some damn respect' had been motivation behind their last pitched battle. This time he had the mother-lode going in.

The cheery thought that that might be enough of a distraction for an easy win crossed Mustang's mind. It was not as if any promises to go easy had been issued. Quite the reverse. He was fully expecting Fullmetal to pull out all the stops and intended to give as good as he got. Last time, he'd gone in certain that his greater experience would carry the day and had mostly been proved right. Now? Well, that Mustang supposed was what everyone was here to find out.

“Ladies and gentleman? Yes, your attention please? Hmm?” General Grumman's amplified voice boomed over the parade ground. He grinned and waved cheerfully from the podium to attract the attention of anyone deaf enough to miss the output of a dozen of Headquarters' finest speakers. “Ladies and gentleman, we are gathered here today to witness a truly special event, oh my yes. The fine gentlemen you see before you are two of the greatest alchemists of the age and it is my privilege to introduce them. On my left, Brigadier General Roy Mustang, three years winner of the Eastern Headquarters award for 'officer most likely to accidentally-on-purpose burn the typing pool to the ground'! And on my right, a young man who needs no introduction – least of all to the members of that self-same typing pool to whom he generously donated more paperwork than any other State Alchemist in living memory – Major Edward Elric!”

Thunderous applause. Fullmetal flinched then nodded to the crowd and raised his arm, just enough to acknowledge their support.

“Now then,” Grumman went on, wagging his finger at the combatants, “I want to see a nice clean fight. No name calling, no hair tugging and all collateral damage will be billed to whomsoever is responsible. Are we all ready? Mr Prime Minister? Major McDougal – your fire-fighting team on standby? Excellent. Fullmetal! Flame! Take your marks! Ready! Set! Fight!”

The double click of Mustang's fingers was just a fraction of a second slower than Fullmetal's clap.

The entire parade ground crackled with blue-white light, instantly dividing it into a near perfect grid and ripping every other square upwards into a rough pillar. The reactions Mustang had set in motion – aimed at blowing the ground out from under Fullmetal's feet – were instantly disrupted, the flames scattered harmlessly by the wave of stone. Fullmetal himself was carried upwards by his creations, disappearing out of Mustang's line of sight with a triumphant smirk.

Well, that was annoying.

Mustang stepped back slightly. Each pillar was about three metres tall and one metre across, with about the same distance between them. Technically more than enough to launch reactions around but the alternating pattern meant targeting through them was impossible. And every second he stood there thinking about it, Fullmetal was free to attack from the higher ground.

Trusting that it would make that somewhat harder for him, Mustang sent streamers of fire arcing up to come down on top of the pillars in a series of satisfying explosions. No cry of pain or shock resulted from this so he still could not pinpoint his opponent's location but it would definitely keep him distracted for a bit. Long enough to get a proper look at his transmutation.

By spreading the reaction across so wide an area, Fullmetal had compromised density for size. This was not Armstrong-standard work: the pillars were porous, full of nice big air pockets. Holding out both gloves, Mustang concentrated on a couple of the nearest constructs, pumped them full of pure oxygen and then –

Click. Click. BABOOM!

He would have to thank Ed when this was over. Really, he never got to combust enough ugly bits of masonry. There was one statue on the corner of the Grand Assembly that could very much do with being reduced to flying shrapnel but Hawkeye never let him even finish suggesting it. He took a certain amount of delight in picturing its misshapen face as he targeted the next line of pillars and put another dent in Fullmetal's cover.

A loud clap sounded from the left and above him as he was about to blow up the third row. He sprang aside and switched his aim. Fullmetal's silhouette was atop one of the pillars left standing from the first row, sharp against the sky and poised to spring. Mustang immediately and automatically shifted his transmutation to create a disorientating flare and thus throw off Fullmetal's leap. He clicked as the younger man jumped and –

And his right glove exploded.

Yelping manfully, he beat at the flames and tore the blackened cloth from his hand, narrowly avoiding a foot to the face as he did so. Fullmetal landed in a crouch, just out of arm's reach and tossed back his head, smirking again. Of course. The clap had been him turning Mustang's own alchemy back on him. All he'd needed to do was increase the oxygen density around the outstretched hand, no skill or real control needed.

The kid had gotten smart.

He lunged at Mustang, metal fist coming like a runaway train – no transmuted blade, just raw force. Mustang dodged, scuttling away quickly, desperate to keep the battle ranged. Close-to the likelihood of him doing well against a twenty year old waving around several pounds of solid steel was minimal. Banking on Fullmetal being incapable of repeating the trick at close quarters, he risked a volley of sparks to increase the distance between them. By pure chance, one of them landed in Fullmetal's hair and Mustang was able to regain his dignity amid the shouting and scrabbling that followed.

There was a sudden lull as they faced each other, Fullmetal with his hands half-raised, Mustang with his left hand poised to click. “Getting tired yet, old man?” Ed asked maliciously.

“Not even warmed up.”

“Heh. Well I guess it'd be hard to when you've only got one move.”

“Care to bet on it, Fullmetal?”

The startled look on his face when Mustang flipped his glove around and showed him the new array picked out in black thread on the palm was extremely gratifying. Slamming the array down against the ground and flinging him into the air on a blast of purple energy, even more so.

“Hey!” The light and transmuted rock resolved into a rough approximation of some old torture device, stone clamps locking round Fullmetal's wrists and spreading his arms safely apart. His legs flailed about, a good hand-span clear of the ground, beating uselessly at the column holding the restraints up. “Gah!”

It was Mustang's turn to grin. “A good soldier varies his tactics when his enemy least expects him to.”

At which point he noticed that Fullmetal was no longer wearing his boots.

He just had time to appreciate the irony of his statement before Ed brought his knees up and clapped his feet.

Where exactly the metal necessary came from, Mustang was not prepared to guess. Probably something to do with the construction of the parade ground or else a local pipe or some sort that would need to be replaced carefully when they were done. Whatever its source, by the time it broke through the surface, it had been extruded into a fountain of black wires that looped around every part of his body within reach, right down to individual fingers. The thoroughness with which Fullmetal trussed him up was both enviable and extremely uncomfortable.

Mustang tested the give in his bonds. There wasn't any. And Fullmetal was laughing, proper peels of laughter that mingled with the cheers going up from the crowd. And who could blame him? What a ridiculous sight it must be, the mighty Flame Alchemist locked into what was nearly a victory pose, completely incapable of striking the winning blow.

Fullmetal clicked his heels together and struck them again against the column. It disintegrated, taking the bulk of his prison with it. One good hand-clap later and the fight was all over.

They looked each other in the eye as the crowd went wild. The laughter bubbled out and now Fullmetal looked more apologetic than anything else. He glanced up at the podium, making sure that Grumman acknowledged what had just happened. The General's moustache quivered with a suppressed chuckle and without missing a beat, he announced Major Elric was the winner and began applauding enthusiastically. Not waiting a moment longer, Ed dismissed the metal ropes and flattened out the parade ground in a single transmutation. Nervousness flickered across his face as he straightened. Perhaps he thought he had overdone it. Perhaps he realised that humiliating his future commanding officer in front of the entire city was not actually a very good plan.

Mustang stepped smartly forward, grabbed Ed's auto-mail hand and lifted it high. Turning to the crowd, he bellowed – in the voice he reserved for Armstrong impressions and frightening raw recruits – “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST!”

The crowd cheered all the louder.

 

* * *

 

“So when exactly did you realise you could transmute with your feet?” Mustang asked, continuing to towel his hair dry as his sat down on the bench next to Fullmetal.

They were alone in the changing rooms, the whole shower block having been cordoned off by Military Police for the duration of the battle test. Busy doing his boots up, Ed blinked. “Since I figured out what Wrath was doing.” When Mustang looked blank at this, he went on, “He could do alchemy because he'd got my old arm and leg. Before he got red stones to give him a boost from inside, he brought the hand and foot together to transmute stuff. I figured if you could do that, it didn't matter if it was arms or legs, just as long as you could make the circle.”

“Then why not just click your heels every time you want to do anything?”

“Shoes, boots, they're too thick. Can't make a connection. And I can't run around bare foot all the time, can I? 'Sides, it doesn't feel as natural.”

“I see.”

Mustang paused and lowered his towel, staring at the wall. “Fullmetal, did you know about my spare array?”

“Not a clue.” He finished one boot and started lacing the other. “Must be nice not to be useless in the rain any more.”

A comment Mustang chose to ignore. “So are you telling me you just took your boots off because you wanted to show off?”

Fullmetal waved airily. “This whole thing was about showing off. I've wanted to show off like that since I was twelve.”

“To the whole city? Big ambition.”

“Not to them. To you.”

His confusion must have shown. Fullmetal's eyes darted from him to the wall then back. “You always acted superior and like I wasn't smart enough to know what I was doing. I know you only did it 'cos it made me mad enough to keep going just to prove you wrong but even when I worked that out . . . eh.” He rolled his shoulders. “I was a kid. Kinda hurt to think anyone didn't appreciate what I could do – what's so funny?”

“Ed . . . ah . . .” Mustang pressed at the flesh around his eye-patch. “Do you think for one minute I'd have driven you on if I didn't think you could handle it? The problem was never that I didn't appreciate what you could do.”

“Heh. Guess not.”

Fullmetal stood up. He had exchanged his combat gear for loose brown suit trousers and a matching coat over a plain maroon shirt. With his hair freshly washed and combed and ignoring the boots, he actually looked almost dapper. Stooping, he scooped up Mustang's uniform jacket and tossed it over to him. “Let's just say this was pay back for all the times you messed me around.”

Mustang caught the tunic and slipped into it. “Sure. Does this make us even?”

“Eh, why not? Makes sense if we're gonna be working together properly at last.”

Hands flying over his buttons, Mustang got up to stand beside him. He straightened his collar, his medal ribbon, his aiguillette and chain, the eye-patch. There. As neat as he was going to be. As neat as the two of them were going to be. Fullmetal jerked his thumb at the door. “If you're done trying to make yourself look good . . .”

“You realise that fight was the easy bit, right? What comes next is going to be tougher by far than any alchemy duel.”

“Well then I guess we're just gonna have to keep watching each other's backs.”

Mustang smiled, honestly, without any of the mockery he'd used on the battlefield. “I guess we will.”

Side by side, they walked out into a storm of flashbulbs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter is basically a pure giddy joy in which I get to write a fight scene that is in no way life or death for once.  
> \- It is always worth pointing out, I feel, that while Mustang is an excellent ranged combatant, Ed is far and away the better close-quarters fighter. And the more powerful alchemist by a very long way. Possibly the more skilled (Mustang's alchemy is insanely complex though) but definitely the more powerful.  
> \- Yes, Grumann has been wanting to make that joke for years. Why do you ask?


	6. A Coat (In which there is much tailoring and a certain amount of grouching)

Being able to just stroll around Central in the autumn sunshine was a joy. It seemed that all the times he had been there before, Al hadn't been able to appreciate just how beautiful the city could be. Either he'd been trapped in the armour, his senses numbed and dulled, or he'd been on his mad quest for his missing brother and equally missing memories, when single-minded obsession drowned out any thought of sight-seeing. Now though –

Trees flashed red and gold in the light. The marketplaces thronged with people, the air full of sweet baking and cinnamon. Awnings and banners for the harvest festivals fluttered in the wind, brilliant and colourful. Everything buzzed with conversation and stall-holders' shouts. The city was alive in a way it had never been in his memories.

“Oh come on! This is just ridiculous!”

Pity about the company, really.

No. That was an unfair thought. Ed was actually being pretty cool about it all. Really, he was. Mostly. He had weathered the attention of the Military outfitters with what for him was remarkably good grace, only grinding his teeth every seven or eight minutes and only resorting to actual insults once when one of them got a bit too enthusiastic with her tape measure.

OK, then he'd threatened to snap their tailor's dummies in two because the manager had made the mistake of saying they'd have to take the trousers in an inch or too but that was provocation . . . no, actually, it was dumb and Ed really should have been beyond all that by now.

Winry was not much help. She'd insisted on coming along to make sure that anything Ed was going to wear for extended periods of time took proper account of his auto-mail. No more just hoping that his clothes would provide enough cushioning and not fluff up the motors. Ed grouched that she was more concerned about his metal bits than the parts that would actually feel it if his boots fit wrong. Winry had retorted that it would be _her_ flesh parts that would be doing the work if his leg jammed up because the Military wouldn't let him wear leather all the time. Ed snapped that she was being over-cautious – _as usual_ – and they had sulked at each other ever since.

Honestly. Why couldn't they just admit that they wanted to spend time together? It was a real pain them insisting on dragging him along as chaperone – _no, of course you should still come along Al, let's make a day of it!_ – because they didn't know how to say 'I love you' like normal people.

He thought wistfully of Noah, spending the day with Sheska and Mr Falman getting papers sorted out to make sure no one could use her status as a non-Amestrian as leverage against them all. No one was happy about their friend being forced to jump through hoops because of stupid political games. But Noah, who had more experience than any of them with what a state could do to people who didn’t officially exist, decided she was going to jump those hoops and wouldn’t let Ed argue her out of it. Al wondered if she was regretting that decision, stuck inside boring offices filling out boring forms. But for the good weather, he would have swapped with her in a heartbeat.

Because now they had to buy Ed a dinner suit.

Captain Havoc, there as a discrete escort and the one holding the list of things they needed to buy, shrugged apologetically. “Sorry chief. You’re gonna need it.”

“Why?” Ed screwed up his face. “I already got measured for that stupid dress uniform.”

“Which is for parades, promotions and funerals,” Havoc told him languidly, “You need a suit for parties.”

“ _Why_?”

“S'just the way it is. Come on. Mustang's favourite tailor's up here.”

Grumbling loudly, Ed followed him around the corner towards one of Central's most expensive rows of shops, Winry and Al trailing along behind.

Winry sighed, scanning the windows full of perfume and frilly things whose purpose Al could only guess at. “Jeez, Ed. Play a new tune already.”

“He's just bored. He'll cheer up when we're done.”

“But in the meantime, he's going to make everyone as miserable as he is.” She frowned at a particularly extravagant dress. “It is stupid though. Who needs that many different sets of clothes?”

Al laughed. He couldn't help himself and held up his hands in apology when she turned her frown on him. “Sorry! Just – sorry.”

Luckily, before she could ask him what the hell he found so funny, they caught up with the other two and clattered after them into the shop.

The little man on the counter hurried out to meet them, tape flapping around his neck. He beamed at Havoc, then saw Ed. His smile faltered. “Captain 'Avoc? This is the young man the good General called about . . . ?”

Havoc grinned. Ed tensed visibly, ready to explode.

“Magnificent! Superb! Come, come!” Before any of them could say anything, the man swept Ed away to the back of the shop, assistants springing out of the woodwork at the snap of his fingers. They set about the task of taking his measurements with a degree of efficiency that was mildly terrifying.

“They, uh, seem a bit more enthusiastic than the Military ones,” Al observed thoughtfully.

“They're paid to be,” Havoc pointed out, propping himself against the counter. He scratched his nose and ran his tongue over his lips, hands stopping midway to his cigarette case. Presumably he'd just realised that smoking in this place was not going to make him any friends. “Mustang swears by 'em. Of course, he can afford to.”

“They seem to know you,” Winry observed, peering up at the towering set of drawers that dominated one wall.

“Yeah, Hercules is practically an old pal, the number of times the General's sent me down here to pick up new suits for him.”

“Just collecting things? Never bought anything yourself?”

The Captain chuckled. “Not on my pay. But the General? This is just more battledress for him.”

Al looked at him quizzically. “How do you mean?”

Havoc leaned forward a little, bringing his hands together. “You want to get in among the higher ups in the Military, it's not just about proving you're a good soldier. For a lot of them, it's more important where you come from and who your family are. And Mustang's family weren't anyone special and he comes from Nowhere, north East. So he has to work double hard to fit in. Needs to have the right look, be seen in the right places, know about the right opinions. He buys his suits here because so do half the Council and most of the big wigs in the Assembly. Probably had to eat beans and stale bread three days a week to do it before they made him up to General but he did it all the same. Needed to. No one would have taken him seriously if he hadn't.”

Al thought about Mustang's reputation back when they had all been stationed out in East City, all the talk of hundreds of girlfriends and being the toast of what passed for society parties that far from Central. Ed, being Ed, always dismissed it as a sure sign that he was a unrepentant womaniser who liked getting drunk on other people's booze at other people's expense. Would he believe that it had all been part of an act? Almost certainly and would immediately use that as a way of further impugning the General's character.

To Al it sounded like a very sad way to live your life, always trying so hard to appear a certain way.

“And now he wants to make sure Ed is taken seriously too?” Winry folded her arms, not looking too pleased with the idea.

“Sure. But it's not like he'll expect Ed to go to parties all the time.” Havoc grinned, clearly under the impression that she objected to the image of the Fullmetal Alchemist acting in the same man-about-town way as the Flame. “This is just . . . like I said, battledress.”

“Right.” It did not sound as if she liked that idea any better.

“And it's not just the chief.” Still grinning, Havoc brushed the list flat with his knuckles and called down the shop. “Hey, Herc! The General's got another commission for you.”

The tailor was at his side in seconds. “Has his generosity of spirit finally turned upon yourself, Captain? I have always told him how much you could benefit from our attention.”

“Nah, not me.” He pointed. “It's Major Elric's brother here. There's a big shindig coming up and Mustang wants to make sure he's got the right kit. Doesn't have to be Military cut, so use your imagination.”

If Hercules had lit up on seeing Ed, when he saw his brother, he glowed like a fireworks display. He clapped his hands and before Al could even begin to protest, he too was at the back of the shop, stripped of his coat and being assailed by tape measures on all sides.

Across from him, Ed blinked in surprise. “The General's buying me a suit too,” Al told him.

“What the hell for?”

“Well I am going to the party too.”

The assistants fussed around them, looping tapes, pencilling notes, making chalk marks. A couple of them were dressing Ed in a sample waistcoat, tugging it about to lie better around his chest. He harrumphed and raised his arms as instructed, closing his eyes to tamp down his annoyance.

Al did not find it nearly so bad. In fact, he was fascinated by the way the tailors worked and paid close attention to what they were doing, the deft way they mapped their customers' bodies. Inevitably, he mentally compared it to alchemy. Assessing the conditions, examining the materials, collating the data, performing the transmutation –

The sample jacket settled over his shoulders and he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors, curious and surprised. He did not look like himself. He looked like a grown-up.

Hercules brushed at the fabric, alternately beaming and tutting as he rearranged it to his satisfaction, chalk and pins flying. “Magnificent,” he murmured as he stepped back, then louder, “Magnificent! The General was right to send the two of you here, my friends! No one else could have done you justice!”

Ed snorted. But Hercules' enthusiasm was infectious and just for a second, he admired himself in the mirror too.

It took maybe fifteen minutes longer for the tailors to finish with Al. This was mainly due to a small but intense argument over which of two imperceptibly different jacket cuts suited him better. Thankfully, an accord was reached without the need for a duel – pinking shears at twenty paces? – and he was allowed to walk back to the front of the shop.

Ed and Winry were not looking at each other. They were not looking at each other in that way of theirs that announced to the world at large, loudly and firmly, that they were Not Looking At Each Other. It was a little like watching secret agents communicating via semaphore and brass bands. “All done?” Havoc asked, too brightly.

“Captain 'Avoc, I want you to tell the General that I am in his debt for this commission!” Hercules enthused, “It is my absolute pleasure.”

“Pleasure enough to knock down the bill?”

The tailor smiled, clearly meaning 'you're joking.' The captain lifted one shoulder. “Hadta try.”

While the two of them crossed swords over the bill, Al moved closer to his brother and semi-adopted sister, greeting them cheerily. They looked round in turn, making sure the couldn't possibly be accused of looking at anything other than him.

Oh, this was ridiculous.

“You don't need us for this bit, do you Mr Havoc sir?” Not really waiting the answer, he seized an arm each and dragged the pair of them outside, soundly ignoring their protests. “There's something I want to do.”

They let him tow them along, mostly he suspected because both of them still thought of him as their kid brother and didn't want to upset him. Especially as that would leave them no one else to talk to or through.

Honestly. Anyone sensible given nearly six months would have managed to get past the awkward reunion bit and on to the part where they admitted that they actually sorta really liked one another but these two? These two were the all time champions of avoiding admitting anything about their feelings. How had that even happened? Wasn't Winry the one who used to shout at Ed and Al for not coming clean about what they really felt? And as for Ed, well, half the time he went around telegraphing his emotions like a comic-strip character. How the hell could he clam up over the important stuff?

All that time spent apart, thinking they could never get home. All that time waiting at home, knowing they'd never make it back. Damnit. Why couldn't it be something easily solvable like not knowing which bit was supposed to go where?

He brought them to a stop in front of another, much less exclusive gentleman's outfitters. “Here we are.” Ed and Winry looked at him like he was insane, probably because he was suggesting another clothes shop. He considered just shoving them inside but figured it would be fairer on the owner to get any explanations and subsequent shouting matches out of the way first.

“I owe you a coat,” he told Ed.

“You do?”

“Yep. I left your old one in another universe.”

“That wasn't your fault! And it's not like it even fit me any more! Come on Al, you don't owe me anything –”

“Well I think I do. And I these look like exactly the kind of thing you need.” He gestured at the mannequins in the window and the long travelling coats they were wearing. “So we're going to go in and see if there's one you like.”

“Ah – OK! Fine. But hey, look, Winry doesn't have to stand around getting bored while we do that does she?”

“I don't mind,” Winry told Al, “Either way. If you want to just go in there and –”

“You're here for a second opinion,” Al explained patiently, “If he goes for the one that's all leather and spiky rivets, you can help me talk him out of it.”

They actually managed to exchange a glance at that, for roughly half a second before they realised what they were doing. Sighing, he shoved them both ahead of him into the shop.

In the end, it took maybe half an hour to find the right coat. The shopkeeper was nowhere near as efficient or enthusiastic as Hercules, but she was close enough with her recommendations when they listed off what they needed: tough, hard-wearing, comfortable, easy to clean, resistant to oil stains, unlikely to snag on any joints, stab-proof –

By the time Ed was standing there in the middle of the room, drawing a long riding coat around himself, the poor woman probably thought they were all mad or dangerous or both.

Ed turned a slow circle, testing the hang and weight of the material. It was made from proper dark oilskin but moved in a way that suggested it wouldn't be heavy to wear. The fit seemed perfect, reaching to just past his knees. It wasn't flashy or dramatic and it definitely wasn't going to make him stand out in a crowd but all the same, it looked good on him. A bit like that overcoat he'd been wearing when Al had slipped his soul between worlds on a suit of antique armour. In fact, it made him look a bit like –

“Huh.” Ed stopped and stared at the mirror. He must have realised it too, because he put a hand up to his ponytail and then adjusted the collar thoughtfully. There was no explosion or swearing. Was that surprising or not? Al wasn't sure.

Winry walked up behind Ed and craned her head around to see the reflection he was seeing. They stood like that, not talking, just looking. For the first time in a long time, they were relaxed about being close together. “It suits you,” Winry murmured. She'd recognised the resemblance at once, of course.

The funny thing was, it was Al who ended up breaking the moment. His mouth just ran away from him before he could stop it. “Great! Do you think it comes in red?”

And Ed snorted with laughter and Winry stepped back with a chuckle and they all ended up agreeing that he had grown out of the phase where he needed to make himself a big glowing target for anyone who wanted to fight him. Plus which Ed was sure that the Military would insist he dressed sensibly because they were boring like that even though they thought running around in those stupid skirt things was a good idea.

And as they set off back to the hotel, just before they belatedly remembered to go find Havoc again, Al looped an arm around the two of them and hugged them tight to his sides, not caring how goofy he was being.

For a second, the three of them had all been thinking the same thing at the same time. Because they knew each other, deeply and completely. Because they understood each other's worries and failings. Because sometimes they really did have the makings of the perfect team.

Even if two thirds of it mostly insisted on acting stupid and really needed someone to kick their collective behinds once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Staring Al Elric in his role as the sensible one . . .  
> \- Incidentally, the earlier condition of Ed's re-enlistment (that Al never be allowed to join up) is something of a response on my part to all the fics where Al becomes a State Alchemist too. I just find the idea a little distasteful given what Ed goes through with the Military, I suppose.  
> \- Oh, and the way I figure it, leather is a good thing for auto-mail users to wear on long journeys since there's less fluff to get caught in the mechanism. This by way of explanation for why Ed cross freaking deserts in the stuff.


	7. A Ball (In which there are speeches, dancing, several Generals and three kisses)

When Ed had first been handed his pocket watch, he'd made some dumb joke about expecting a big ceremony with trumpets. His excuse was he'd been a smart-ass kid with way too high an opinion of himself and no idea how ridiculous he looked.

Today was the day he got to eat those words.

There were what looked like hundreds of people crowding around the front steps of the mansion waiting to watch as he climbed awkwardly out of the back of the car and tried not to rip the stupid over-priced dinner suit on the first step. It was an incredibly dumb thing to have to wear, all fancy and suffocating and he kept catching his sleeve on the medals pinned on the left side and _seriously_ , why did he have medals at all? All posthumously awarded, apparently, except for the one you got for turning up and apparently there was a specific one for being a State Alchemist because you weren't allowed to wear the pocket watch with the dumb suit and this was all so FRIKKIN' STUPID –

The press photographers started up as he got his foot down on the pavement and he spent the next few minutes trying to walk in a straight line with great pink and blue blotches smeared across his vision. Didn't they have some other poor fucker to blind?

As if that wasn't bad enough, there were a bunch of radio guys standing at the top of the steps ready to ambush him with a forest of microphones.

Ed wanted to tell them to all go do as many anatomically unlikely things as he could think up, and right then that was one hell of a lot of things. But – and it was an annoyingly big and sensible but – Mustang had spent quite a while detailing how pissing off the press or the Prime Minister by pissing off the press would go badly for him and everyone else. Damnit. He really wanted shout that he was only doing this because the Prime Fucking Minister had not so subtly threatened him into doing it. But, but but.

He smiled around clenched teeth and told the nice young lady from Radio Central that he was honoured to have been called back to service.

There. That was polite but made it clear he hadn't volunteered.

Liveried attendants took him through to a marble antechamber where there were more photographers and lots of people in suits and dresses peering at him from behind red rope barriers. Someone got him to stand there for a few minutes and look like he had just come in so all the papers could get the right shot for 'Major Elric Arrives At Ceremony!' or whatever damn headline they were going to give it.

It was all so fucking staged. He'd been stuck n the car around the corner for half an hour until they were ready for him to arrive. He was really getting nostalgic for the days when Mustang would just toss important stuff over the desk like it was nothing.

 _Finally_ , two of the attendants positioned themselves next to the big doors at the end of the room. Hush fell and they heaved them open. To Ed's eternal relief, there were no actual trumpets.

Behind the doors, the mansion continued pretty much in the same way, all marble pillars and marble floors and a lot of marble statuary. Basically the lowest common denominator in ostentatious building work. Taking a deep breath, Ed walked through, mentally calculating the exact way he would have flattened the place down to its foundations.

Whoever was responsible for organising this stupid fucking drama of an awarding ceremony had built a low, wide stage at the far end and set up rows of chairs down the room, like it was a damned church. More people in evening dress filled those seats, all craning their heads round to stare at him as he came in. To his even more immense relief, he saw Al, Winry, Noah and Captain Hawkeye in front row. At least he would be able to look at them without wanting to make something explode so perhaps he would get through it all without _actually_ making something explode.

No such luck on the stage.

It was split neatly in half between Assembly and Military. The Assembly side were all pretty much interchangeable, men in suits looking smug and women in dresses looking much the same. The Prime Minister was standing at the front, to the left of the lectern thing in the middle. He didn't look like much. His face was all pointy and he reminded Ed of one of the landlords he'd had back in Munich, the one who'd blamed him for breaking the floor when it was clear to anyone the boards were rotten.

Mustang was in the middle of the Military side, sleek and comfortable in his suit, a surprisingly understated set of medals on his chest. His hair was smoothed back, which made the eye-patch stand out more than usual. He was smiling though, offsetting the look a bit. The place to the right of the lectern was taken by the big-moustached General Ed remembered from his time at East Headquarters. Grumman. Apparently he'd taken over the Military after Bradley's death and this was mostly a good thing. Or so Mustang said.

There were only two other people on that side. One was a massively fat man with a huge red nose who looked utterly bored by everything and kept shooting hopeful glances over Ed's head, probably at the big clock he could hear ticking behind him. The other – the other did not look bored. She was perhaps just a little bit taller than Ed and had a mane of platinum coloured hair. It fell in a great sweep down her back and across half her face, making it seem as though she too only had one eye. She was dressed in exactly the same kind of dinner jacket as the men, with about twice as many medals as Mustang and a frikkin great sabre strapped to her side. And she was glaring at Ed like he was a bug in her soup. Jeez. What the hell had he ever done to her?

He stomped up on to the stage, following where another of the attendants indicated. This took him past big nose, Mustang and evil-glare woman and landed him face to face with Grumman. Who grinned toothily and patted him on the arm. “Glad you could make it, m'boy.”

The Prime Minister convincingly faked his own smile and then addressed the room. “We are here today,” he began, “to witness the reinstatement of one of this country's most celebrated State Alchemists, a young man who has achieved many great things in the name of the people he pledged to protect.”

Ed tuned him out almost immediately, or tried to. His brain kept putting up little signs as the man droned through Ed's 'achievements': _but that bit was Hughes. No, Al did that. Mustang. Armstrong. Scar. Hell, that bit was the fucking Tringhams._ It was just all so – gah! Everything he'd done – everything _he'd_ done – had been to fix his own stupid mistakes. He'd helped people, sure, but that had never been what he'd set out to do. He'd never been that selfless. Haecker was talking like it had been, like he'd gone around the country doing good for the sake of it and then launched a crusade against Bradley off his own back.

Shit. That was really what people thought about him, wasn't it?

“And now, General Grumman?” Haecker gave his precise, just right smile. “If you will?”

“Why, certainly. Ahem hem.” Grumman coughed and took the Prime Minister's place at the lectern. A woman in dress uniform sprang out of nowhere and held a wooden box out to him. “By the power vested in me by the State and in keeping with the traditions of this great nation,” he said, plucking a silver pocket watch from the box, “it is my privilege to bestow on Edward Hohenheim Elric the title of State Alchemist and the rank and honours of a Major in the Amestrian Military. Henceforth, he shall be known once more and forever after as the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

And then, deftly and before anyone could even think about stopping him, the old man tossed the watch lightly into the air.

Ed, still reeling that someone had actually managed to dig up his damned middle name, caught it on reflex alone, snatching it on the downward arc with his auto-mail. From just below the stage came the bright flash-whoosh of a camera going off. There was maybe half a second for him to appreciate what Grumman had just done, then the General was shaking his hand and then the Prime Minister was as well and everything became a whirl of congratulations and posed photographs and scowling lady soldiers with big-ass swords who looked more and more like they wanted to skin him alive.

The clock told him that twenty minutes passed between getting the watch and Grumman’s happy announcement that the formalities were over. It felt like he’d just blinked away a century. The woman in uniform whipped the watch away again. Everyone in the audience stood up and the stage party, Ed included, hustled in a semi-orderly fashion to another set of big doors, which opened to reveal a truly enormous ballroom that was surely the pinnacle of the architect’s marble fixation. He wondered how they’d been talked out of making the chandeliers from it as well.

It was nothing like an opera house but it still took an effort not to shudder. He suspected dance floors were going to stir bad memories for the rest of his life.

The people around him started moving off into smaller groups, the politicians and the soldiers splitting apart as quickly as they could. Ed was left in a little circle of empty space between the social battle lines. Which suited him fine. He used the opportunity to sidle off to the side and survey the room as everyone else crowded in after them. It was going to be a standing up kind of party, with a long table of snacks and drinks rather than a decent meal. Very modern and progressive and unmilitary. There was a band tuned up and ready to go in the corner, the conductor flicking her baton to sound the start of some jaunty tune Ed vaguely recognised. Dancing. Just what every metal-legged major wanted at his reappointment ceremony.

“At blasted last!” Big Nose huffed, stomping past and making straight for the refreshment table, “Oi, waiter chappie! Mine’s a large gin!” Halfway there, he was intercepted by a square-faced man with greying hair who matched his speed and trajectory perfectly, slipping into quiet conversation without either of them needing to break step. Ed half-heartedly wondered who they were.

“Major General De Haviland,” Mustang said in a low voice, skulking up beside him and nodding at Big Nose, “South Command. The man with him is Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed, who actually _runs_ South Command. Also known as the Razor Wind Alchemist.”

“One, why should I care? Two, if they're in charge of South, what the hell are they doing here?”

“To witness the honouring of the great and noble Fullmetal Alchemist of course.”

“Hah fucking hah.”

“As for why you should care, this is an excellent opportunity to observe people you might need to know about later.”

“Like who, exactly?”

“Well . . . the man with the little beard over there? Colonel Fiat, the new head of Court Martial Investigations. That woman by the tree thing is Major Hawker, one of my field officers. You'll like her. You share a common interest in large-scale demolition. That's Julian Fraser, the Minister for the Economy. The two with him are . . . Goddard Thomas, the Foreign Minister and Bethany Dalton, Minister for Transport.” Mustang turned slightly to examine the other side of the ballroom. “Those men in the sashes are from the Cretian Embassy. And the woman in the pink, frilly concoction is Lady Handley-Paige, head of the League of Independent Alchemists. You should talk to her. She'll certainly want to talk to you –”

“OK, OK, I get it. Name-dropper's paradise, great.”

“It's far more than that, Ed.” He indicated the room in general. “These are all people who Haecker thought needed to be here, to be impressed by your reinstatement. Members of his own government, foreign diplomats, the Independents – it all gives an idea of what he's thinking. And whose opinions he cares about.”

Ed struggled not to admit that this was a good point. “Fine. I _get it_. So who the hell was that woman on the stage? The one with the sword? 'Cos her opinion seems to be that I need to drop dead.”

Mustang opened his mouth to reply but a steely voice cut him off.

“Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong. North Sector.”

Because of course she was be standing right behind them.

Then it registered. “ _Armstrong_?!” He search the woman's flinty expression for something remotely resembling the Strong Arm Alchemist and came up completely blank. No, wait, maybe there was something about the eyelashes . . .

“The General is the Colonel's elder sister,” Mustang explained with his most charming smirk, “It's good to see you again, Olivier.”

Her eyes narrowed. It was clearly not just Ed she considered barely worth scraping off her shoe. “Mustang,” she growled, the name clearly making her want to spit.

Before Ed could warm to her because of that, she pinned him with a truly terrifying glare. He did his best to keep eye contact and tried to ignore the part of his brain that wanted him to run away and hide under a rock.

General Armstrong sneered. “So you're the runt who my brother raved about. Hn.”

Ed bristled. She was, what, a couple of centimetres taller at most? Hell, Mustang was bigger than her and he was puny. “Funny. He never mentioned you.”

Her lips thinned, fingers curling around the hilt of her sword. “So the soft hearted moron does have some concept of respecting a superior officer. Good to know.”

“Hey – Armstrong's nuts but he's no moron!”

“No. Moron would be too high a compliment for someone how abandons his duty to go run a desert village.”

“Look, lady, who the hell do you think you are –”

“The correct form of address,” the Major General hissed, voice deadly, “Is 'sir'.”

They continued to glare at each other, Ed seething with righteous anger. Armstrong – Alex Armstrong – was undoubtedly one of the craziest people he'd ever met but the guy had been there for him and Al when they were in serious trouble and he wasn't going to stand to have him insulted, not even by his own shrimpy sister. “Fine,” he snapped, “ _Sir_ , who the hell do you think you are to call my friend stupid for going to _help people fix their lives after the army destroyed their homes_?!”

General Armstrong's eyebrows rose sharply. Abruptly, she spun him around by the shoulder and pushed him out on to the floor. “I'll have the first dance with this one,” she announced loudly, “Bandleader – the Grenadier's Waltz, double tempo!”

The conductor took one look at her, cut the jaunty tune off at the neck and hurriedly did as she was told.

Without stopping to ask, Armstrong arranged Ed into the right position, totally ignoring his spluttering protests. There was a long moment while the band tried to find the right music and a few other brave couples set themselves up for the dance as well. Then they were off.

She led. Obviously she was not the kind of person who even considered following. Her arm was like iron around his shoulders and he was pretty sure his auto-mail was starting to buckle in her grip. He kept expecting the sword to trip him over.

“As far as I'm concerned, you are just another clueless alchemist clogging up the ranks on the back of foolish assumptions about your usefulness.” Her eyes were narrowed again, bright blue chips of ice daring him to contradict her.

Great. Not only was she going to make him dance, she was going to carry on insulting him while she did it. “They want me here! I didn't ask.”

“Exactly. A soldier without dedication is worthless. An officer without dedication, a liability.”

“I am not a liability! I can fight!”

“Hah! I'd like to see you try.”

“Look, I didn't ask you to come all this way to see me pick up a frikkin' watch!”

There was an instant where her anger did not actually seem focused on him. “I was ambushed into it,” she snarled, “Ridiculous political waste of time. I'd be safely back on the way north now if that old fool Grumman hadn't pulled rank.”

“Then why don't you go shout at him?”

“Because he'd enjoy it too much. And because I wanted to see what all this fuss was about.”

“Well now you have. _Sir_.”

They whirled around in sullen silence for a few stanzas. Damn, the waltz was fast. Double tempo – who waltzed at double tempo? Ed concentrated hard on keeping up with Armstrong, which was in no way easy. Hell, was she trying to make him make a fool of himself in front of everyone?

“I suppose you're in with that idiot Mustang as well?”

He felt his eye twitch. “What if I am? And he's not an idiot!”

“He's a preening nitwit who didn't have the balls to mount a proper coup. Thanks to him, we've been slaved to a bunch of damn politicians.”

“Oh, and what would you have done? Marched in and declared yourself Führer?”

A dangerous glint appeared in her eyes. “Without hesitation.”

Shit. She really meant it.

The waltz slowed and came to a stop. So did the dancers. Armstrong held on to him a couple of seconds longer than necessary, looking him up and down. “Hn. Not even out of breath.”

“Why would I be out of breath? It's only a frikkin' waltz. _Sir_.”

The eyebrows went up again. “Just what I always tell people.”

Armstrong let him go and stepped back, adjusting the sash that held her sword. “Very well then, runt. Run along and enjoy your party. Perhaps if you ever dare venture north we'll see if you're worth anything more than a dance.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched off, boot-heels ringing on the floor.

Ed simmered in the middle of the room for a minute then went the other way, past a bunch of very out-of-breath couples.

Determined to avoid the Prime Minister and his cronies for as long as possible, he scooted along the refreshment table, grabbing a plate and several handfuls of finger food, and darted behind a pillar where he could lurk for a while without interruption. Or would have been able to if someone hadn't already had the same idea.

“Oh, sorry.” The man took a step back to avoid a collision. “I say, aren't you Major Elric?”

Ed glowered at him. “Weren't you looking at the stage?”

The man smiled disarmingly and tapped the pair of dark glasses he wore. “Sorry,” he said again, “Not so good in the eyesight department.”

He was slender, with a bit of a stoop and white gloves on his hands. There were no medals on his jacket, so Ed assumed he was a politician or one of their hangers-on. “Hn.”

“Marco Cavaier,” he introduced himself. It was hard to tell if his smile reached his eyes but the sides of his face crinkled up in the right way. “Humble businessman. And, ah.” He waggled his fingers. “Proud owner of a weak constitution.”

So that was why he was so pale. And hiding behind a pillar. Right. Ed cocked his head to the side, not quite sure what to make of the guy. Cavaier popped a meat pastry in his mouth and chewed contentedly. OK, so probably not actually some sort of spy.

“So are you having a good time?”

Taking a bite out of a pastry of his own, Ed considered how to respond to the question. Since swearing violently at complete strangers was – so people told him – not a good idea, he settled for a grunt and, “S' fine.”

“Ah. So you are not. A pity. Experience has taught me that it is important to find something to enjoy in even the harshest circumstances. Surely there is some enjoyment to be had here?”

Surely. Hah. But he thought about Winry, Al and Noah. He thought about Mustang and Hawkeye. And he decided the man might have a point. “I guess,” he admitted. They scoffed down the rest of their food in silence.

“You're right. I should go find my friends.”

Cavaier bowed at the waist. “Then I shall wish you a good evening.”

“Uh. Thanks.” Not quite knowing what else to say, Ed turned his plat around a few times and walked away. After a few paces, he looked back, “And good evening to you . . . too . . .”

The man was gone. Ed blinked. How the hell –

He caught sight of several politicians looking his way and hurriedly put the plate down on the table. By moving quickly around the room, circling around the now full dance floor, he was able to avoid being dragged into any conversations until he located Mustang holding court over by the doors.

Trust the General to have secured the exit.

He was seated in a red cushioned wooden chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the other, Hawkeye in an electric blue ball gown on one side, Havoc in an ill-fitting dinner jacket on the other. Ed wasn't sure either look suited them but it was certainly interesting to see Hawkeye with her hair down. Mustang arched an eyebrow as he came over. “Fully recovered, Fullmetal?”

“Any chance you could never mention that happened ever again?”

“I might not but I think come the morning, half of Central will be talking about how the heir to the Armstrong family fortune swept you off your feet.”

Ed cringed and Havoc winced in sympathy. “Could have been worse, chief. She didn't chase you around the room with her sword.”

“You, me and a heap of firewood, Captain,” Mustang warned darkly.

That made Ed grin and his mouth ached with the first genuine smile all day. “Hey, what happened to Al?”

“He and Noah are talking to some of the Cretian diplomats,” Hawkeye told him, pointing to a mop of brown hair just visible in between a couple of the men Mustang had singled out earlier, “Something about an old legend of an elixir of strength, I believe.”

“Trust him to find the one interesting conversation in the place. Uh.” Ed scrubbed the back of his head. “And, uh, where's Winry?”

The three soldiers swapped glances. “I think she went out to get some air,” Havoc supplied cautiously.

“Oh. Right. Probably wants to be alone then, right?” No one said anything. “Not right?”

Mustang pressed his fingertips together. “Fullmetal, if I suggest you go out after her, will you consider doing it without me needing to make it an order?”

“Wh – hey, we're definitely off-duty and I'm not even officially under your command yet so you can't just –”

Wordlessly, Havoc slipped a fifty cenz note from his pocket and slapped it into Mustang's outstretched hand. Hawkeye sighed. “I think it would be a good idea for you to go and speak to her,” she said firmly.

No, it really wouldn't, chorused the voices in Ed's head. Now it was Mustang who sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fullmetal clearly doesn't realise how much of a favour we are trying to do him. Hm.” He straightened and clicked his fingers. “Captain Hawkeye, I have just remembered an important relevant factor in this situation!”

“You have sir?”

“I have. While we were incarcerated together a few months ago, Fullmetal made the assertion that he would only kiss Miss Rockbell once I had kissed you.”

“He did, sir?”

“He did. I believe that this conviction must be weighing on his mind. I suggest that the only option open to us is to satisfy the conditions he set in order to free him up to follow all possible courses of action, honour unsullied. Don't you agree?”

“It seems reasonable, sir.”

Radiating smugness, Mustang rose from his chair and turned to face Hawkeye, whose expression as far as Ed could see had not changed from 'polite indifference' throughout the entire exchange. The General beckoned her to join him in front of the chair and they stood facing each other. “How should we approach this, sir?” the Captain asked.

“A very good question. There is a proper way of doing these things and I would hate to breach protocol. Ah!” Mustang cocked his head as the band started a fresh tune. “The Aquroya Roundelay. Would you care to accompany me in a dance, Captain Hawkeye?”

“Of course sir.”

In one smooth gesture, Mustang scooped her hand up in his and planted a brief, delicate kiss on the back.

“Miss Rockbell is on the west balcony, across the reception room,” he told Ed as the two of them glided away, “I'll expect a full report in the morning.”

“You bas – !” Ed swallowed the shriek just in time and settled for wishing broken toes at Mustang's retreating back. Not that that was going to happen. He and Hawkeye fell into the steps of the dance like professionals. Of course they fucking did.

Havoc shuffled and made noises about slipping out for a smoke. He was gone by the time Ed stopped seeing red and –

And there was no reason to do anything. Winry going outside was a pretty big clue she wanted to be alone. And sure, the alternative was staying in the room full of the Prime Minister's flunkies but –

He really didn't want the chief memory of the evening to be of spinning in circles with Armstrong's big sister.

Five minutes later, he was standing in the doorway with the cool night air on his face, fingers playing around one another restlessly.

Winry was standing with her hands pressed against the balustrade, staring out at the lights of the city. It was a pretty warm evening for autumn but he still wasn't sure how she could be out there with bare arms and not shiver. She did not look around as he hesitantly stepped out to join her. She only spoke to him when he was right next to her, putting his own hands down on the weathered stone. “Hey.”

“You knew it was me?”

“I can always hear you coming.”

He guessed she could.

“You know, back in Rush Valley,” she said after a minute, “you can go up to the hills above town and look down and see everything at night. There are so many lights it doesn't matter if its dark or not. And there's always something happening, someone working all night or a competition or something. You might sleep sometimes but the town doesn't.”

Ed thought about that. “The world doesn't ever sleep. Even if you do.”

“Right. You can miss things but they still happen. Somewhere.”

“Winry, I . . .”

She put her hand on his auto-mail, teasing back the cuff of his stupid fancy shirt. The light from the doorway bounced off her earrings. Just two in each ear tonight. “I know every inch of your body, you know that?” Her voice was soft, wistful. “I know how it fits together, what muscles you use, how your nerves fire when you run. Stupidly detailed stuff like that.” She lifted a finger and poked him gently on the side of the head. “But what's in there? Not a clue most of the time. You've done so much that I don't know about except for what it did to your body. And sometimes I'm fine with that because I don't think I _want_ to know. And sometimes it's hurting you so bad that I want to be able to rip it out and make it all go away.”

_The thing that was supposed to be mom. Al being eaten away by light and darkness. Fresh blood on old metal. Nina. His hands about to touch the circle in Lab 5. Sloth boiling away to nothingness. Greed's last breath hissing on his face._

“I wish I could do that too,” he muttered, honestly, his gut lurching with guilt.

Her hand was working its way into his now. “Thing is, we can't. Not just like that. And you . . . Ed, would you do something for me?”

She pulled him around, stepping away from the side of the balcony. Her dress was . . . he had no idea what type it was. Gracia had lent it to her, digging it out and adjusting it or whatever you had to do to get the fit right. It was long and sort of silver green, cut high at the neck and reaching to Winry's ankles. She'd let her hair down, like Hawkeye, only with this weird pin thing on the side. She looked nice. Grown-up and . . .

And all he could think was how much better she looked in oil-stained overalls and a red bandanna, up to her armpits in machinery. That was when Winry looked the best. When she was building things or taking them apart to see how they worked. That was when she looked happiest.

“Y-yeah,” he managed to say, “Sure. What?”

“Tell me why you don't want to.”

He should have asked, don't want to what? Because she hadn't finished the question. But it wasn't like there was a whole lot she could be talking about and he should just run away. Keep avoiding this and eventually it would . . . go away.

Yeah.

Ed took a deep breath. “Because you're amazing and I don't want to hurt you. Because I don't want to screw up being friends with you on account of – something  _I_ want. Because I have no idea how this stuff is supposed to work outside of anatomy and stuff I learnt from a bunch of soldiers. Because I just agreed to move my whole life to Central again and I am so fucking sick of leaving people behind and so fucking scared that I'll never be able to stop doing it long enough to be there for you when  _you_ need it. Because I really, really don't want to screw it up.”

He wanted to look away and knew that if he did, he as good as admitted that he wasn't worth the time of day. So he didn't. She was still holding his hand. He wished he could feel her skin and was kind of glad he couldn't. It made it easier to speak without stammering.

Winry breathed out softly, half-closing her eyes. “OK. Thank you.” She opened her eyes again. “You know, Dominic keeps telling me I need to start my own clinic. Says since I'm pretty much running his these days, I don't have an excuse. He's right. And if I did it in Central, it'd be easier to get customers from the North than if I stayed in Rush Valley. Plus I'd be closer to the Valley than if I went back to Resembool straight away.”

“Uh . . .” The conversation was starting to get away from him. More than it already was. “Why are you – ?”

“I don't have to wait around for you to come back any more, Ed.”

And he really meant to say something sensible back, like how that wasn't the point and he didn't really want her to have to run herself around the country after him either and that even if she did, he still didn't think he could –

He really meant to say all that. Only what he actually did was lean forward and kiss Winry on the cheek.

Or that's what he tried to do. Either he surprised her and she moved or he misjudged how far he needed to lean, because he ended up off balance with a face-full of straw coloured hair. Winry yelped and quickly put her other hand up to stop him going over. They clutched at each other, awkward in their fancy clothes and it took a last minute grab at the balustrade to keep them upright, and by then, Winry was laughing so hard they nearly went down anyway.

Utterly mortified, Ed tried to pull away, but Winry still had hold of his auto-mail hand. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” he gabbled, “I didn't mean to – uh . . .” She brushed his cheek and her hand was chilly against his blushing but that was actually kind of nice. Automatically, he pressed into the touch.

“Do you want to go back inside and dance?” she suggested.

“Do you?”

“Not really.”

“What do you want to do?”

Winry grinned.

The second kiss was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- See, if I were going to continue the 2003 Anime? Including Major General Armstrong is pretty much the first thing I'd want to do. And after some thought, I found the perfect way to fit her in!  
> \- Mucking up one's first kiss? Somewhat traditional and absolutely totally not drawn from personal experience.  
> \- Colonel Lockheed appears by kind permission of [The_Dancing_Walrus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus).  
> \- Nearly finished!


	8. A Feast (In which there is breakfast)

The day after the ball, Brigadier General Mustang insisted on taking them all out for a late breakfast at one of the big cafes down the street from their hotel.

There was little protest at his generosity. Captain Havoc made a joke about it being too rare an event to miss and Elrics and Rockbells were not the kind of people who turned up their noses at free meals, particularly after a late night. They drifted in as a happy amorphous cloud, cheered by an ordeal survived.

Ed and Winry immediately took seats together, so close their shoulders were brushing, utterly at ease with each other. No one commented on that. It was just the most natural thing in the world.

Al kept sending affectionate glances their way when he was not swapping stories with Havoc, who was nursing a hangover but seemed willing to put it aside to hear about the Elrics' lives in Germany. They managed to send each other into fits of giggles over one of Ed's many disagreements with landlords and the man in question resorted to throwing a bread roll at his brother to make them shut up.

The General presided over the meal with an air of calm indulgence, casually throwing sardonic quips across the table, a lazy half-smile on his lips as he sipped his coffee. Captain Hawkeye sat beside him, doing much the same in her far more understated way. No physical contact there but they brushed gently against one another in their conversation, dancing just as sure footedly as they had in the ballroom.

And Noah watched it all, contemplating these people into whose world she had fallen. Their minds were closed books to her now, no more to be opened at a touch. Yet the longer she was without clairvoyance, the more satisfaction she took in teasing emotions from expression and meaning from body language, and to see her friends back in their own land and happy in the company of those they had once lost – it was a sight worth savouring.

She quietly picked up the newspaper discarded by the General when he sat down. 'FULLMETAL COMES HOME' thundered the headline and Ed looked out from the page, startled, his metal hand just closed around the pocket watch, all gold and silver in the photographer's flash.

Across from her, the real thing off-handedly insulted Mustang's ability as a leader. His brother pitched a bread roll of his own at Ed's head, nearly hitting Havoc who was in the process of passing Hawkeye the butter. Neatly catching the missile, Ed took a big bite and grinned broadly, left hand absently stroking the arm Winry had carelessly thrown around his shoulders even as she batted his ear in mock disapproval. The General shook his head in equally-mock despair.

Noah laid the paper down, smoothing it flat. In a few days, they might be regretting their choices. In a few days, fleeting happiness might have be replaced with grudging resignation and anger at those who had forced their hands. But for now there was laughter and morning sunlight and the smell of fresh coffee, and whatever lay ahead, she knew that there would be again.

This was not Shamballa but the paper was right.

It was home.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Preview: Afternoon Tea**

 

“Unbelievable!” The paper landed hard on the table, scattering teacups with the force of its impact. “That little brat helps ruin this country and they throw him a parade!”

“That's a slight exaggeration.” At the head of the table, Marco Cavaier sipped his tea serenely. “This is just a little show to keep the people entertained.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and reached for an iced bun. “Nothing worth getting agitated about, surely.”

His guest glared and snorted, stamping back and forth for a second, his lip curled. “It's a pantomime. A charade to cover the nonsense they're making of this country.”

“A nonsense?” Cavaier smiled. “Really, now, General. You should see the engineering works out west. I'd hardly call the things we're building there a nonsense.”

“Hmph. And – you shouldn't call me that!” He looked around nervously. “Even in here . . .”

“Heh. Mmm.” Smacking his lips, Cavaier picked up another bun. “Walls and ears and so on. Very well, 'Mr Halcrow'.”

The man relaxed, just a little. “And I suppose you have a point. But without strong leadership, that work will be for nothing. While the so-called government is wasting its time on publicity exercises, this country's enemies are free to move unopposed.”

“Some cynical people might say that if this country hadn't made itself so unpopular, it would have fewer enemies to worry about.”

“All great nations make enemies. That is the way of the world.”

“As you say, I'm sure.”

Cavaier dabbed his lips with a napkin and leant back in his chair. “And perhaps I understand your resentment. So much changing around you, and you yourself cast aside as an unwanted embarrassment. It must sting.”

Halcrow slammed his fists against the table, upsetting another couple of cups. “Thanks to Mustang, Grumman and the rest of those spineless fools! Look at it all! The Military under the thumb of the Assembly, politicians demanding a choice in who our soldiers are, so-called Independent Alchemists being given leave to organise outside of State control – all of it! If Bradley was still around –”

“The country would be under the control of a man who thought human sacrifice was the way forward and enjoyed keeping his top generals in the dark. General. Ah!”

Soundlessly, one of Cavaier's servants appeared at his side, a telegraph slip clutched in her hand. He glanced over it and bared his teeth. “And in answer to your prayers . . . it seems we have a lead.”

“Really?” Halcrow's eyes widened. “So soon?”

“My people are efficient.”

“And it's real? You can retrieve it?”

“Yes. If you want me to.”

“Of course I do! Leverage. That's what we need. Something to hold over the heads of Haecker's cronies and get them to put things back on track.”

“As you say.” Cavaier waved lazily at the servant and she departed wordlessly. “Consider it done. I can't say how long it will take. These things do need to be done properly. But I will get your leverage.” 

Leaning forward again, he picked up a plate and offered it, flakes of pastry sticking to his gloves. “Now, won't you try a cinnamon cake? They're very good. Always take the time to enjoy the good things in life, that's what I say. You never know when you'll get another chance.”

 

**Fullmetal Alchemist: The Way We Are Now**

**Coming Soon . . .**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And that's your lot, as they say.  
> \- I hope that everyone's enjoyed this story - it's not as action packed as the preceding instalments, I know . . .  
> \- This is the last part of the series I have finished. The next part is actually a set of small vignettes strung together into a vague narrative, so I might start posting them in a more irregular fashion. The next solid arc, however, exists purely in my imagination at the moment and I have so many things I need to write, it's not high on the list at the moment. Still, I hope I'll get the chance to write it sometime!  
> \- Thanks again to everyone who read this, and to [The_Dancing_Walrus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus) for proofing! Until next time!


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